BurnOut
by Claremonty
Summary: Who is Jean Grey? What's happening to her? Warren wonders, flying after her. Xavier also wonders who or what she is. Is she still his most responsible student, the other voice in his head, or has she become something alien whose powers threaten them all?
1. Victory

This story is an X-Men Evolution Post-Apocalypse Continuation starring Jean Grey and Warren Worthington III (Angel).

It also features Rogue, Scott Summers (Cyclops), Charles Xavier (Professor X), Logan (Wolverine), Remy LeBeau (Gambit), Ororo Munroe (Storm), Hank McCoy (Beast), Emma Frost, Selene, Betsy Braddock (Psylocke), Domino, and others...

_**I greatly appreciate all feedback/comments so please let me know what you think! Reviews inspire me and motivate me to write so if you want to read more, say something. Even just a short word or two is really great. :)**_

DISCLAIMER: I do not own X-Men or X-Men Evolution. Marvel owns these properties and all the X-Men characters.

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Child of Light and Darkness...

Who is Jean Grey? What is happening to her? Warren Worthington wonders, flying after her. Charles Xavier is also wondering who or what she is. Is she still his most responsible student, the other voice inside his head…or has she become something alien, with uncontrollable powers that threaten not only herself, but the X-Men and every being on Earth?

* * *

**Prologue – Victory**

The terror of Apocalypse had ended. Charles Xavier was barely functional. Jean Grey, his greatest student, had saved him, and, with the assistance of many of the world's mutants, humanity. But he knew the moment he touched her mind and reviewed her victory that a new disaster was on the horizon.

In an aerial battle over the Great Pyramid in Egypt, she had defeated him, Charles Xavier, the world's most powerful psychic mutant reborn as one of Revelation's Four Horsemen. His being corrupted by the fiend, he existed only to destroy all that he lived for and loved. And his abilities, augmented by Apocalypse's influence, were beyond those of a master telepath.

For the first time his thoughts manifested in the physical realm. He was flying in reality, instead of dreaming of sailing out of his chair. Then he felt her attack. Her psychic projection blinded him – a blazing shield in the shape of a falcon. Wings of flame scorched his senses. Just as she threw him to the desert sand he felt that fire breaking into the real world. He knew she still burned now even though the fight was finished.

Jean operated the controls of the aircraft on the way back to the Institute using only her telekinesis. Magma, Colossus, and the others were hardly breathing. When they landed, Jean lifted Charles out of the plane and inserted him into his wheelchair, manipulating his body like a puppeteer.

_Again with only your thoughts, Jean?_

_You're awake, Professor?_

_I'm all right. You can let me go. Just let it all go, Jean._

Scott Summers ran up to them. He had battled a maniacal Mystique, her powers increased exponentially by Apocalypse. Though exhausted to a degree he had never experienced before, he had to see Jean. He needed to hold her in his arms so he could be certain it was all over and the world that had come apart at the seams was truly restored.

She was hovering twenty feet above the ground, her hair streaming upwards. There was a metallic taste in the air he found disturbingly familiar. An unsettling jolt coursed through his already shell-shocked system as he recalled the vortex that emerged during her last power surge.

_Scott, Jean needs you._

It was the Professor contacting him telepathically because he was too weak to speak. Suddenly Jean lit up as if the air around her were on fire. Dazzling wings formed from light spread from her shoulders and she rose into the sky.

"What's happening to her?" cried Summers.

_Scott get Warren. Ororo's still incapacitated, but Warren can save her._

Cyclops understood. "We have to save her from herself…" Summers' thoughts grew more alarming.

_Only Warren can reach her in time._

"In time?"

_She's leaving us. She's leaving the planet. She'll try to breach the atmosphere and she'll burn to a cinder._

"I'll get Warren."

Returning from Mexico, Warren Worthington III stepped off one of the helicopters provided by SHIELD. Alongside Kitty, Sunspot, Havoc, Wanda and some unexpected members of the Brotherhood, he had fought Apocalypse's Second Horseman, Magneto. Crushed by one of the Master of Magnetism's brutal assaults, he had to be carried onto the chopper by Blob, one of the Brotherhood. Every muscle and bone in his body, particularly the fine hollow structures in his wings, ached. Scott sped towards him.

"Warren! You have to help us! You have to save Jean."

"What are you talking about? I just helped save all of humanity. What's wrong with Jean?"

"Look," Scott pointed to a glowing point in the late afternoon sky. "It's her. The Professor said she's out of control. She's trying to leave Earth. She'll go too high and burn up leaving the atmosphere," as he finished Warren's feet left his sight.

Warren scarcely knew Jean Grey. He'd only been on one mission with her. In London, months earlier, they failed to prevent Magneto and his minions from enabling Apocalypse's resurrection. There had been no time for talk. And, as soon as he saw them together, he realized she was Scott's girl. He subsequently tried to stop admiring her long, brilliant red hair, tiny waist, and sparkling intelligent eyes. She seemed to be floating all the time, her feet never quite touching the ground.

He had an idea of what was happening to her. He'd tried one night, like Icarus, to fly as high as he could. It was the first time he discovered what the cursed feathery outgrowths could do. But what was going on in Jean's mind now? Why try to leave the planet after defeating Apocalypse?

She was way up there. The air became thinner as Angel ascended beyond the puffy cumulus clouds into the upper atmosphere. Miles above the Earth's surface, each wing stroke brought him closer to the shimmering object. It was Jean, but he'd never seen her like this. He'd never seen anything like this.

Psychic flames radiated from her soaring form. The brightness burned his eyes. If he touched her, would she burn his skin? They were rising higher and higher. Too far, Warren knew – soon he would grow faint from lack of oxygen.

"Jean, stop!" he called. If he kept going he would fall; he would die. "Jean! Don't go!"


	2. The Fall

**Chapter 1 – The Fall**

A winged man fell to Earth. Jean's locus shifted. What was she doing? She felt Xavier's presence. He was trying to connect to her using Cerebro. She couldn't understand what he was transmitting. A name? A man? A man with wings like an angel. Warren, Angel, falling, fast!

She turned to glimpse him hurtling earthward miles below. She reversed direction and flew faster than she had ever thought possible. Mentally reaching out, she caught him with her mind. His lungs were close to collapse. She opened his mouth and compressed his chest. He took in a breath.

_Warren, it's Jean. I have you. Breathe._

Warren gazed upon a resplendent Jean Grey. Her arms were outstretched, yet she held him with her thoughts. He felt his entire body, his weight, suspended. Her energy touched his every part. She began to descend, towing him to terra firma. Her fiery halo dimmed before his closing eyes as his awareness faded.

Grey delicately laid him on a stretcher next to a bewildered Logan. Dr. Moira MacTaggert and two members of her medical staff moved in with a portable respirator. Jean glided down and gently stroked Warren's forehead. Her boots were less than a foot from the ground. Scott raced over, his heart beating fast.

Struggling against his heavy lids, Charles Xavier watched in dread as Jean's corona blazed anew. In an instant her brilliance became blinding and she shot heavenward once more. Charles, fusing with Cerebro, used every scrap of life he had left in him to propel a psonic bolt at Jean's consciousness. She dropped out of the sky. Logan scurried and barely managed to catch her.

"Jeannie!" he clutched her to his chest.

Scott, a half-step behind Wolverine, bent down and took Jean from Logan's arms. She was strangely light. He knew she was thin – a hundred and ten pounds at five feet six inches – but as he had learned on several occasions, 110lbs, especially when falling from twenty-five feet or so above, was something. Now it seemed as if she weighed nothing, and was getting lighter. He worried if he let go the wind would carry her away. Locks of her hair drifted around her face. Scott sensed waves of energy rushing up his arms.

Moira MacTaggert had been contacted before the teams set out to stop Apocalypse. She and a group of trusted medical assistants had flown in from Muir Island and quickly transformed the Institute into a mutant infirmary. Inspecting the wounded arrivals she found many serious injures, but luckily, no fatalities. And her greatest hopes had been fulfilled – Jean and her team had returned with the Professor alive.

Moira was adjusting Warren's oxygen mask when Charles launched the psychic assault on Jean. She saw Charles' chin fall onto his chest. He slumped down in his chair. She ran to him shouting his name. She shook his shoulders; but Xavier was non-responsive. Moira feared his heart had stopped. With mounting despair causing tears to erupt, Moira pounded on Charles' sternum. Then she heard his voice in her head.

_Moira, I'm all right. Help Jean._

Charles' rib cage heaved as he inhaled. Moira checked his pulse. It was weak but steady. She instructed an assistant to get the Professor inside and closely monitor his heart rate. Afterwards she approached Scott Summers, who was tightly holding onto a fallen Jean Grey.

"Scott, how's Jean?" she asked.

"I don't know, Moira." Scott answered. He briefly loosened his grip on Jean's unconscious body and she started floating upwards.

"Oh my…" MacTaggert's eyes widened.

Moira ordered her staff to bind Jean to a stretcher with heavy canvas straps. The medical assistants then wheeled the gurney up the ramp into the mansion. Scott trailed slightly behind, dragging his battered self along as rapidly as he could.


	3. Recovery

**Chapter 2 – Recovery**

Warren awoke in a hospital bed in one of the residence rooms. His head was ringing. An oxygen mask covered the lower part of his face. When he tried to remove it he felt an IV pulling at the crook in his arm. A gloved finger gently tapped his hand.

"Doc says you should keep that on for a little while longer." Rogue's voice peppered his ears.

"How long?" he whispered through the perforations in the plastic encasing his mouth.

"Dr. MacTaggert said your oxygenation levels have to stabilize. And they've been pretty good for the last few hours, so that thing might come off tonight. You are pretty indestructible, you know. After what you've been through, you should be dead. You heal almost as fast as Logan."

"Where's Jean?" asked Angel weakly.

"Jean's with the Professor."

"I have to see her." Warren sat up, jerking the tube feeding oxygen to his mask.

"You can't see Jean right now." Rogue pressed his shoulder. "The Professor needs to be alone with her and you need to rest and get well. Jean will be okay. You saved her."

"She saved me." Warren fell back and closed his eyes.

Rogue felt a pang in her gut. A noontime shaft of sunlight streaming through the window illuminated one of Warren's feathers as it slowly circled to the floor. So, even Angel, the beautiful lone hero of the skies, like practically every guy alive, was in love with Jean Grey. But Rogue, his old friend, who, with some support from Logan, had rescued the world by sending Apocalypse into a time rift, was invisible.

At least Scott had been there. Mystique had floored him, but Rogue and Wolverine eventually peeled him off the ground. Limping, Scott had joyfully embraced her in victory. And while airborne, en route to the Institute, they were side by side as she tended Kurt's wounds. The proximity to his body coupled with the elation she felt pumping through her nerves threatened to unleash feelings for Scott she had worked hard for weeks and weeks to seal up tight within the recesses of her psyche.

She soon discovered it didn't matter how thick the plaster and strong the containment walls were. All it took was the tiniest chink to set her desire for Scott free. They brushed against each other during turbulence and Summers caught her gaze. For a fraction of a second Rogue believed he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Then they landed. Scott immediately split off to find Jean.

Rogue got Cannonball to assist getting Kurt out of the aircraft. Once Nightcrawler was in the care of Dr. MacTaggert's medics, Rogue, despite a desperate wish to appear utterly disinterested, found herself turning to watch Scott as he approached Jean. Grey was levitating above them all, staring into the distance and didn't seem to be aware of him. Right then Rogue really wanted to hate her – for being so perfect, so gorgeous, so powerful, and just about always the subject of the spotlight – but she couldn't. Their psychic connection was too deep.

The link stemmed from the time nine months earlier when Rogue and Jean first touched. Jean's powers had expanded to an astounding degree in a matter of hours. The young mutant was adrift in a chaotic vortex spawned by the uncontrollable surge in her abilities. With serious reservations, the Professor finally allowed Rogue to absorb enough of Jean's power to create a psychic conduit. This enabled Grey to focus on something or someone besides the confusion engulfing her. Rogue provided a path to the person who knew her better than anyone else, supposedly, Scott Summers. Joining their minds, Rogue saw Jean through Scott's eyes and vice versa. The stunning redhead was everything, every particle in the universe to him. And for Jean, the handsome young man with the ruby quartz glasses represented safety and security; he would ground her on Earth and keep her from shooting off into oblivion.

Ever since, Rogue could never be sure whether her emotions were her own or Jean's. Walking alongside the med staff transporting Kurt indoors, she sensed Scott tearing himself apart inside while he peered helplessly at the girl floating beyond his grasp. A sudden burst of light hurt Rogue's retinas. Jean became incandescent. Rogue blinked as her teammate grew wings of fire and blazed towards the stratosphere. Part of Rogue soared away too.

Now, looking at Warren sleeping, Rogue imagined the dreams that stirred behind his rapidly shifting lids. He was with Jean Grey at that very moment, weightless, enveloped in her telekinetic energy, lost in her dazzling green eyes.


	4. The Lesson

**Chapter 3 – The Lesson**

Rays of the rising sun crept along the contours of a winged female figure. Crafted from stone and steel her Art Deco features expressed strength and progress, as opposed to the conventional ideals of charity and compassion embodied by her nineteenth century predecessors who adorned the spires of lower strata. She and her three sisters, each guarding one of the four corners of the roof of the Worthington Tower, looked down sternly on the neighboring buildings of midtown Manhattan from their lofty aerie soaring over sixty stories high.

Warrior goddesses of victory personifying the commercial triumphs and steely determination of Warren Worthington I, they were not beneficent angels. Just as the light broadened, the four, now clearly etched against the pink and gold dawn, were joined by a fifth winged form. His face was not directed downward, harshly judging those below, but tilted up towards the sky.

Warren leapt into the air. He was on his way to the Institute. Rising into the clouds, he realized the euphoria, the sense of release he used to savor when he left the terrestrial realm and its problems, had returned. He might see Jean Grey today.

Although she was ever-present in his thoughts and dreams, he had not seen her in the flesh since the day he fell. After spending two nights in Dr. Moira MacTaggert's ad hoc hospital, he had fully recovered. It was the only time he'd ever regretted his healing ability. He just wanted a chance to talk to Jean before he left, to thank her for resisting the pull of the stars and returning to Earth to rescue an imperfect Angel.

At the time no one except Professor Xavier and Moira were allowed in to see her, not even Scott. Warren would have stuck around, if only to be in Jean's vicinity; but without the excuse of illness, he felt uncomfortable remaining for no other reason than to eventually be granted access to Scott Summers' girlfriend.

He had spent most of the twelve days since he was discharged in the air, flying with no goal other than clearing his head of the indelible impression she had left. It was no use. The sky was empty. For the first time in his life, flying felt futile. Soaring into the clouds had no purpose because nothing was up there, unless she appeared, hovering at the edge of the atmosphere, waiting for him to fly into space.

Despite being anxious about his ability to control his emotions when he saw her, he had to be near Jean. All he needed was a pretext to visit the Institute. The most obvious one was accepting Xavier's long-standing offer of X-Men membership and a position at the school.

The idea went against his nature. His mutation had set him apart from other people starting in his early adolescence. His parents insisted that the freakish growths remain a family secret, so he could never remove his shirt in the boys' locker room, or allow a doting girl to get too close. But to be around Jean he would do anything.

With Ororo still recuperating, Logan had asked Warren to fill in as flight instructor. Apocalypse's destruction was two weeks past. With many of the X-Men under the ministrations of Dr. MacTaggert, Ororo out of commission, and the Professor and Scott consumed with concern for Jean, Wolverine was the only one left to organize classes, bring the school together, and heal their communal wounds – tasks which did not come easily to him. He knew Cannonball and Sunspot desperately needed structured, challenging flying lessons before one of them impaled himself on a tree or smashed into a building.

Warren alighted on the terrace a few minutes early and Logan got the feeling he had circled the campus several times before coming in to land. _An eager teacher,_ he thought. Before Sam and Roberto arrived, Logan gave Warren only two curricular requirements: the boys should get a half hour for lunch, and by late afternoon they should be so exhausted they won't want to move for days.

Warren spent the morning working on their maneuvering skills using the tall pine trees in the glen surrounding the rear of the mansion. Things did not go well. It was an overcast day and not only was Roberto too impatient to wait until he'd charged sufficiently before he took off, he kept using up all his power at once trying to match Cannonball's altitude and speed. Warren, feeling like a living net, had to catch him repeatedly.

Sam's abilities enabled him to shoot off at near super-sonic velocity whenever he wished, but he lost his sense of direction easily and veered into many trees, knocking one of them down. Luckily, in propulsion mode he was invulnerable. By noon the three of them had sustained multiple bruises and were ready for lunch.

When Warren, Sam and Roberto entered the small kitchen area, it seemed vast and empty. Rogue and Scott were the only other diners. Scott gave Warren a tour of the refrigerator and made apologies for requesting he fend for himself. While Sam and Roberto were foraging, Warren approached Scott.

"Any news about Jean?"

"She's better." Scott's tone wasn't convincing. "I mean, she's responding to us, she knows who we are, who she is."

"They can't keep her from floating away. That's the problem," Rogue interjected.

"She's generating this anti-gravitational force and she can't seem to control it. Hank is working on a remotely controlled system of weights which should be able to hold her down," Scott continued.

"Unless she wants to fly off the planet. The Professor is trying to convince her she's better off down here with all of us." said Rogue.

"Where is she?" Warren immediately wished he hadn't asked the question. He feared Summers might consider it intrusive.

"She's in the Danger Room with Moira and the Professor," Scott answered reflexively.

"It's the only space that can hold her," added Rogue.

"She'll be out this afternoon." Scott sounded nervous. "We're experimenting with a new harness."

"If I can do anything, please let me know." Warren hoped he was coming across as cool and casual while shivers ran up his spine and out through his wings at the thought of seeing Jean.

"The Professor says she'll be fine, it's just going to take some time." Scott turned to look out the window over the sink and went on, "The thing is, she has this distant stare, like she's not really here, or wants to be somewhere else."

"Scott, she wants to be with you, with the Professor and the X-Men." Warren doubted what he was saying was true.

Developing the endurance necessary for long distance flight was the lesson of the afternoon. The clouds had cleared so Sunspot was finally able to draw an adequate amount of solar energy. With Warren's guidance, he resisted his desire to keep pace with Sam and was able for the first time to remain airborne unassisted for several miles.

Neither of the boys had any real long distance flying experience so Angel didn't have to go far to push them to their limits. Sam's ability to propel himself had practically expired by three o'clock. Warren led a descent into an open meadow for a short break. Roberto said he was so tired he wanted to sleep for a week. Warren knew he had successfully completed his mission. Logan wouldn't have to worry about these two getting into trouble for the next few days.

The last assignment of the day was to fly the half-mile back to the Institute. Warren was apprehensive about returning to the mansion. What would he actually do if he saw Jean? Would he be able to conceal his feelings? The sky beckoned. He told Sam and Roberto to take off; he would watch them from above. Warren spread his wings and effortlessly lifted himself 2500 feet into the air. Using his eagle-like eyesight he watched his students far below finish the final leg of their flight plan. They landed on the lawn in front of the main building and instantly collapsed in the grass.

Warren had started a slow downward spiral when he noticed a familiar shape hovering some hundred yards or so above the terrace. He dove two thousand feet in seconds. A steel cable connected to a harness tethered her to a large spool on the terrace. The wind played with her hair and rippled the fabric of her thin blouse. Buoyed by the air currents she bobbed like a kite.

_Warren?_

"Jean," he answered, gliding closer.

"Why are you here?" she asked, when he was near enough to talk to.

"Logan wanted me to give Sam and Roberto flying lessons."

Now he understood why Scott had described her stare as 'distant'. He couldn't tell if she was looking at him or through him. Seeing her restricted by the harness made him think of a panther in cardboard cage. Jean Grey didn't seem to want to be tethered to the terrace or the Professor or the X-Men or anything on Earth.

"I'd like Sam to study how accurate your maneuvers are," Warren proposed. "He knocked down a tree. And Roberto could learn a lot from your sense of control…maybe we could get a longer cable so you could join us." Angel didn't care that tempting Jean to stretch the extent of her restraints was probably the opposite of what Xavier wanted.

"How long a cable? How far can I go before it yanks me back?" she asked.

"Jean, do you want me to remove the harness? Let me take it off. No one should tie you down."

Jean's pupils dilated as she focused intently on Warren's face. Any perception of distance evaporated. He felt her penetrating his every cell. At first he was afraid; he resisted. Then his fear melted away. He would open everything to her. He could withstand her fire. Light flowed from her eyes forming a halo around her body.

"You almost died trying to keep me down before. If I go too high how will you stop me this time?"

"I won't try to stop you. I'll go with you."


	5. Alone with the Wind

**Chapter 4 – Alone with the Wind**

_Come in, Scott._

Summers never had to knock on the door to Xavier's office. "Sorry it took me a while," he began, entering the large, paneled study, "Jean had to get used to the harness."

"I'm glad you're here." Xavier rested an elbow on the opposite edge of the broad walnut desk that divided them. "I wanted us to talk some more about Jean's situation. So, once she got used to the thing, how did it go with Hank's latest contraption?"

"It's still going. I think she's pretty okay with it. Well she was, when I left."

"You left her by herself?" Xavier sounded somewhat concerned.

"She wanted to be 'alone with the wind' or something. She told me you said it would be okay." Scott gripped the marble doorknob. "Should I run back?"

"It's fine. Sit down."

Summers was perpetually surprised to find the furniture in Xavier's office so comfortable. Maybe it was the physical relief of not having to support his weight while being mentally examined.

"Try to relax, Scott." The Professor's manner was calming, as always. "I'm not examining you."

"Uh-huh. I can't relax, you know that. Should I not have left her alone out there?"

"We have to start trusting Jean to make her own decisions again."

"But you think she might take off like before…"

"We can't keep her locked up in the Danger Room forever. And no matter what we do, if at any moment she were to manifest the power she displayed two weeks ago she would crush all of us, easily."

"Professor, I don't understand. Why is it happening again?" Cyclops straightened and fixed the roiling beams that shot from his crystal-lined eye sockets squarely on Xavier. "I thought you set up barriers to prevent this."

"It's my fault, Scott." Xavier's vision wandered to the window adjacent to his chair. The clouds outside had receded, revealing a sunny afternoon. "Jean had to call on every possible reserve of strength and will to stop me when I was under Apocalypse's control. She had no choice but to break down all the boundaries we'd constructed over the years. And I fear she went beyond, tapping into something else, some unknown, elemental force."

"Is that why she won't talk to me?" A faint tremor crinkled Scott's voice.

"She's scarcely talking at all, to anyone, including me. It's because her senses are overloaded, even with the new sedatives Moira's been administering. Her head's so full of noise – I can't see clearly into her mind. In the few coherent thoughts I've been able to make out, she's up there, in the clouds…" Xavier noticed a large shadow swiftly passing over the lawn. "So perhaps it's good for her to get some fresh air."

"When she flew off that day, after we got back, where the hell was she going? What was she trying to do?"

"I don't know." Charles raised his hands to touch his temples.

"Do you think she wanted to obliterate herself?"

"Scott, we should go out to the terrace. Jean may need us."

* * *

Warren couldn't turn away from the piercing light. The blinding radiance rushed over him. The impact of the shockwave nearly knocked the wind out of his lungs. Inhaling deeply, he found himself hanging in the air, unbound by Earth's gravity. Caught in Jean's orbit, his flaxen hair rose towards the sun. Next to her fiery form, he seemed translucent, like a thin sheet of paper held up to a flame.

Peering into her blazing irises, his eyes ceased to hurt. Now he could see things – tiny bits of the universe, different forms of energy, the forces binding together the particles in the oxygen molecules that burned up in the shrinking air space between his fingers and the release on her harness. In the flood of images and emotions that inundated his consciousness, he and Jean flew over fields and mountains and followed the foils of cresting ocean waves. She had wings like his; he felt them. He must set her free. They would be together, airborne, where they belonged.

Jean Grey hadn't expected to meet anyone floating several hundred feet above the mansion. She had risen to the furthest extent of her tether to get as far as she could from everyone else and the nattering buzz of their brains. For a moment she thought he was another psychic projection tossed up from the river of random figures that raced through her mind. Then she sensed his heart beating. He was drifting close enough to touch. His clear blue eyes stared into her soul. A magnificent pair of wings stretched behind him. It was Warren Worthington, the Angel, and he wanted her to fly away with him.

A new presence dispelled Jean's reverie. He spoke to her forcefully. He said he had seen the future and she must see it too. He showed her Warren falling from a great distance. From above she watched him plummet to the ground; his burnt face was bleeding while tufts of feathers broke off his singed wings. Jean shuddered and backed away from Warren's advance.

"Warren, stop," she blocked his hand. "I can't do this."

"Jean…"

_I could hurt you._

"Jean, we'll be okay. We'll burn it off, all this energy, together."

_I almost let you fall. You would have crashed… _

The brilliant aura encompassing them collapsed. Warren felt her strain as she forcefully folded the energy around her, compressing it into two points of searing light which emitted from her eyes.

_I have to go. Scott and the Professor are down there._

Scott's small voice came from a micro speaker pinned to her shirt, "Jean? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Scott. Bring me down," she answered without shifting her gaze from Warren.

The mechanism started reeling in the cable attached to her harness. Angel was still on fire. She looked up at him, shining in the sky, his feathers pulsing with light. She had never seen anything more beautiful.

_Don't come down, Warren._


	6. Different Types of Tethers

**Chapter 5 – Different Types of Tethers**

Moira MacTaggert was losing the ability to read the figures on the computer screen she'd been staring at blankly for the last five minutes. On average she'd been getting less than four hours sleep a night for the past two weeks and it was starting to affect her. Hank McCoy, in a rush as usual, charged into the lab and sat down at his terminal.

"How's it with the harness?" Moira asked him, walking over to his desk.

"Evidently she's adjusting to it."

"Do you think it'll hold her?" she asked, slicing the "t" in "it'll" in two with her sharp Scots brogue.

"The cable is threaded with synthetic adamantium, so I doubt it will snap, but the vest isn't secured. The front can easily be detached."

"Charles didn't want her to feel padlocked. He wants her to recognize it's her choice to wear it."

"Yes, I know. What I don't understand is why he's so insistent I complete work on this," Hank's thick indigo fingers grasped a slim circlet just large enough to fit around Jean Grey's head.

"The neural disruptor - the prototype is ready?" Moira plucked the device from his hand and studied it.

"I was up all night finishing the circuitry."

"It can disable her?" Moira asked.

"With a five hundred volt shock to her brain, it can kill her." Beast answered. Moira did not respond. Her eyes glazed over and her face seemed momentarily frozen. Beast surmised correctly that she was receiving a telepathic message from Xavier.

_Moira, come to the terrace, quickly. Jean may have lost control…_

* * *

Jean Grey lowered her sight from the winged man to see the sparks in her eyes reflected in the shiny surface of Scott Summer's ruby quartz visor. Warren looked away as she descended into Cyclops' reaching arms. Angel's eyes settled on Moira MacTaggert and her two assistants as they emerged from the mansion followed by Hank McCoy. The medics were steering a stretcher which had a cage-like set of steel bars running along the side. Warren guessed the bars were made of some sort of adamantium-steel compound – he'd heard Dr. McCoy was synthesizing new super-strong adamantium based materials.

Narrowing his view of Beast, he observed a slim, circular, metal object in the mutant's hefty blue hands. What were they about to do to Jean? Warren was brimming with anxious energy, he felt like he was going to explode. His eyes darted back to her. She was swimming in the air. Scott pressed her down on the platform. One of the assistants held her legs while Moira clamped the metal frame into place, locking Jean's body to the bed. Then the other assistant handed Dr. MacTaggert a syringe.

Before he knew how horrified he was or what he was doing, Warren was there. The needle, millimeters from Jean's skin, was a microsecond from his grasp. Suddenly something hit him, hard. He was in the lawn, fifty yards from the terrace and Jean. But he wasn't even scuffed. He glowed. Then another blast, an optic energy beam, shot from the eyes of Scott Summers. _So slow,_ thought Warren. He jumped forty feet into the air and easily avoided Cyclops' attack. He flew straight to the terrace, but he was too late. Jean, Moira, the medical team were inside. The Professor and a recently arrived Logan were moving towards Scott. Warren saw a red flash in Scott's visor. He pulled up at the last moment and barely evaded the beam. From a hundred feet above, he heard Xavier.

_Warren, come down. Scott will not fire at you again. We need to talk about Jean._

* * *

Scott was almost trembling. They were in Xavier's office. Warren had never imagined Summers could appear so angry and aggressive while revealing such vulnerability. Scott was ready to murder him. Warren saw an altered reflection of himself in Cyclops' visor. Was everything Scott saw distorted? Xavier sensed the hostility in the room coming to a boil. He tapped the minds of the two young men, slowing their hot anger until it became smoldering resentment. Then he made them feel heavy.

Scott sat stiffly, hardened like a rock. "What were you doing? Were you trying to take off the harness?" The words cracked out of Cyclops' mouth.

Warren ignored him. "Professor Xavier, why are you chaining Jean to the terrace?" he asked.

"So she doesn't kill herself," Scott answered, aiming the words like knives.

Warren turned and faced Summers. "She won't. She just has to burn off all that energy. She needs to release it. She needs to fly."

"With you."

"Professor, you're destroying her. I watched her try to contain it. She was straining. You can't keep holding her back…"

"We are not restraining her against her will. All of us combined couldn't stop her if she really wanted to break away. Jean is recovering from a traumatic experience, which has left her in a highly sensitive emotional state. She has chosen to limit her mobility, Warren. She doesn't want these intense surges in her abilities to cause her to loose control." Charles' cadence was smooth and steady.

"You think she needs you to get out of that harness? She can break the tether any time," cried Scott.

"There are different types of tethers," Warren responded.

"There are," Xavier agreed. "But Jean Grey wants to be tied to the Earth and her identity. She wants to remain the young woman we all know and care for so deeply rather than transforming into some alien being, with overwhelming and perhaps uncontrollable powers."

"She'll still be Jean. I know it. When she was suspending me our minds were linked…" Warren tried to explain.

"That's how it feels for everyone she connects to psychically. You weren't really inside her mind. Not the way I've been! You don't know anything about her. We have fought for each other's lives!" shouted Scott. "I love her!"

"We all love her," said Xavier while mentally reining in Scott's violent urges. "Warren," he continued, "Jean is a telepath. And when her powers are amplified the effect she has on others, especially in extreme situations, is very powerful. The intimacy you feel you have with her may be more one-sided than you think." Xavier felt Worthington's defiance dissipate. He was getting through to him. "Jean's planning to attend the University this fall. Doesn't she deserve a chance to go to college and enjoy life, like other young people? Do you realize that if she loses control the consequences could be fatal? Consider what's at stake."

"I was just talking to her. I didn't intend to harm her recovery or upset anyone. I just couldn't watch her being locked in cage. I understand what you're saying, Professor. I'm sorry." Warren relented.

"Under the circumstances, I think it would be better for Jean if you stayed away from the Institute for now," said Charles.


	7. Annie Richards

**Chapter 6 – Annie Richards**

Moira MacTaggert met Charles Xavier twenty-five years earlier at Oxford. He was a young American on a fellowship to study evolutionary genetics and she was a pre-med student straight off her father's sheep farm on Muir Island. At a tea party hosted by some of the faculty they struck an immediate affinity. Charles seemed to know all about her. It felt like he was reading her mind; of course, he was. Throughout their relationship they had spent months, years, apart. But always, the minute they saw each other, their deep familiarity was renewed – as if no time had passed.

Soon after Charles and Erik Lehnsherr, who was not yet known to the world as 'Magneto', had recruited their first students, Moira received a transatlantic phone call from an anguished Xavier. He wanted to know if she could come to the Institute to help him with a ten year-old child named Jean Grey.

Jean had recently witnessed the death of a friend, a girl named Annie Richards. The two were playing together in Jean's front yard. Annie wanted Jean to see the new dress her mother had bought her so they decided to race across the street to the Richards' house. In an instant that would stretch into infinity for Jean Grey, a large black vehicle screeched around the corner and slammed into Annie. The tragedy triggered Jean's dormant telepathy. She suffered onslaughts of pain and confusion as her friend experienced the final dissolution of consciousness.

After awakening from a month long coma, Jean heard the thoughts of everyone around her and kept reliving the horrendous event. Her nascent telekinesis was becoming a problem as well. During instances of extreme agitation, which were frequent, anything or anyone who approached her was violently tossed against a wall or flung into the hallway. Charles had managed to calm her by transmitting his thoughts directly into her mind. Using all of his energy and concentration, he drew the young girl away from the torrent of screaming voices and brutal images and led her to a place of peace. But the second he let go, she was thrown back into terror.

After observing her, Moira suggested to Charles that they might be able to use the child's psychic abilities to free her from the constant trauma that was killing her. MacTaggert and Xavier worked ceaselessly to develop a new technique; it enabled Charles to link minds with Grey and summon their combined telepathic strength to construct a unique internal reality.

As opposed to the transmission or reception of thought Charles had long been accustomed to, this process melded his consciousness and Jean's into one. Since they now co-occupied the same mental space, Charles was able to set right the interior world that had been warped by Jean's fears. Xavier held the ten-year-old by the hand and carried her up into the sky, high above the asphalt and the houses and the treetops. From the clouds he showed her the great waters of the Hudson River, the crests of the Catskill Mountains to the west, and the massive highways, strip malls and towers of the sprawling metropolitan centers to the south. Soon little Annie, lying in the street, bleeding from her brain, receded into the distance and Jean Grey emerged.

Moira knew Charles and Jean became closer that day than any two human minds ever had. From then on they always existed, at least partially, in each other's heads. Standing in his office, Moira was shocked when Charles revealed he could no longer hear Jean's thoughts. She could see it pained him.

"Before it was noise, there was so much going on in her mind. Instead of a single train of thought, she had hundreds, thousands of different perspectives and personas racing around. But over the past few days she's become totally opaque. She won't let me see a thing."

Charles turned his chair from the window to face Moira. He didn't tell MacTaggert everything - that he felt cut-off, as if he'd become partially deaf. The psychic bandwidth was still and silent. For so long Jean Grey had been there, chiming along with his own perceptions. Her lovely voice between his ears was absent.

"Charles, remember Hank's analysis. Jean is generating a powerful negative energy field, it may be repelling your connection."

"That's not it. She's purposefully hiding her thoughts from me."

"Maybe she wants to be alone."

"I can't help her if she won't let me!" Xavier caught himself. He was shocked to hear himself raise his voice.

Moira sat down and squeezed his arm. "You're doing all you can."

"We all knew this could happen, you, Erik, and I. But once I broke through with her, I thought I could teach her to control her powers, no matter how limitless her abilities grew. She's never shut me out like this. She was never able to. But she's beyond us all now."

"I know. And I also know what you're not saying. I'm prepared to do what is necessary. But I don't think we're there yet. Jean is trying. Give her some more time."

"That's what worries me, Moira. She could lose control, any second, and then she'll be gone, or worse, everything will be gone."

"Charles, the moment you feel she is not in charge of her actions, or is an unmanageable threat to herself and others, give me the order," Moira's focus locked on her old friend, "and we'll stop her."

* * *

Jean was floating, free from the Earth once more. The wind on her face was cool relief in the summer heat. She felt a tug at her waist where the harness she was wearing connected to a cable tied to a man below. It was Scott. Sunlight glinted off his visor.

"Jean, control it. I know you can. Come down to me," he called to her through the tiny device near her shoulder.

But she wouldn't return to the terrace, not yet. She was cherishing the vibrant blue, noontime sky; it was the color of Warren's eyes. He had been there, in the same airspace. When was it? Days earlier? Certainly no more than three… The memory was so vivid. She recalled his feathers rustling as thermal currents filled his wings. The air swirling about her still carried his words.

"I won't try to stop you. I'll go with you."

A fresh northerly breeze brought scents of snow and salt to her nose. Where was Warren? Ever since that afternoon his image and his voice and even his smell had haunted her. The following morning, at the beginning of the six-hour long session of mental exercises and guided meditation she endured daily with the Professor, she almost allowed a full-blown psychic emanation of Angel to bloom into plain view. Realizing what form was beginning to take shape, she dissolved the thought right before Xavier was able to make out anything distinct. Yet he remained interested. In avoiding his inquiry she found she could block his telepathy. Almost for the fun of it she began closing doors – practically in his face. His response seemed born more of hurt than frustration.

_Jean, our minds must be in synch. You aren't taking this seriously. You aren't even trying._

She didn't like having Charles inside her head anymore. He kept telling her she had to demonstrate control. It was all he talked about. If he wasn't convinced she was in control, he wouldn't grant her leave to move to the city and attend the University in less than a month and a half. Her parents had agreed to Xavier's terms of admission long ago and awarded guardianship of their daughter to Charles and the school. Of course, Jean had turned eighteen and could legally determine her own fate. But she doubted the University would risk enrolling a rebellious mutant who lacked the support of the Institute.

And she desperately wanted to go. She was extremely curious. She had to figure out what was happening to her - her strange experiences since the defeat of Apocalypse. Could she perceive the fabric of matter itself? Cells, circulating DNA strands, molecules, particles, waves, strings, she could see them pulsating, hear their frequencies coalescing into harmony, then dispersing into dissonance. Sometimes she could feel it all. Change it, if she wished.

"Jean!" It was Scott again, squawking from the little speaker. "Come down, please."

It was definitely time she left the Professor and Scott and the Institute. Every inch of the estate was imbued with Xavier's presence. She not only needed to move beyond his instruction, she had to free herself from his scrutiny, and his deep, repressed, desires. During their many hours together over the past two weeks, the buried feelings that Charles wished away with every turn of self-reflection had become increasingly evident to Jean. She sensed how he wanted to touch her every time his voice entered her head. It disturbed her so much she'd begun to dread his attention. The Professor wasn't supposed to be like the other men (and boys) she knew. He was her true father - the noble leader who understood her, understood the world, and was supposed to guide her selflessly, not harbor vulgar human longings.

The only way she found she could prevent Charles' latent fantasies from dominating her consciousness was to think of Warren. She transmuted Xavier's desires, transferring them to Warren's body. She envisioned stroking Angel's wings as Xavier ached to run his fingers through her hair. Actually seeing Warren again might be dangerous. She couldn't predict exactly what she would do if he were close.

_Warren…_

She called to him. She couldn't stop herself. Maybe he was far away – emotionally or geographically, and he wouldn't hear her. Scott was still looking up at her. She would demonstrate control. She pulled her body to the ground.


	8. A Thousand Stars

**Chapter 7 – A Thousand Stars**

In a cavern, towering nearly 9600 feet above the Pacific Ocean, an Angel slept. His wings flexed involuntarily, in synch with his breathing. He had been flying for days.

_It would be better for Jean if you stayed away…_

Charles Xavier's telepathic suggestion echoed in his mind. When he first heard it in Xavier's office back at the Institute, he sensed the man's black, fathomless stare digging into his brain - scanning every interaction, every sighting, every fantasy, every thought he had ever had about Jean. Warren had to get out of that room. He had to get away. But he could hardly stand. His wings seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds, and his legs and back were so weak they could barely support them.

Staggering slowly out the door, he moved in the direction of the terrace. Wolverine snarled at his bent back as he struggled to pass him. He wasn't going to make it. He was going to fall on the floor. Logan's steel-toed boot loomed before him. Then Rogue appeared. She wrapped her arms under his shoulders.

"Lean on me," she said, walking him over to the glass doors that opened out onto the terrace.

He noticed every step was easier than the last; his wings were getting lighter. The radius of Xavier's mental control only extended ten meters or so. Warren's back straightened. He opened the doors himself. Once outside, his wings pulled him up into the sky by themselves.

"Rogue, thank you!" he called down quickly before her small figure dropped out of sight.

Away from the dampening effects of Xavier's psychic dominance, Warren felt more powerful than ever. He wondered what Jean had done to him. Some strange new energy was running through him, speeding his flight. He must be going over 150 miles an hour, far faster than he had ever imagined. As the forests and hills of western New York State gave way to Lake Erie he contemplated how far he could go. What if he never stopped until he dropped out of the sky? If he couldn't be with Jean, he never wanted to touch ground again.

Twilight faded into night yet Warren remained aloft. When morning dawned his progress had slowed significantly, but he couldn't bring himself to return to the world of ant-like people, squat little buildings and steaming traffic jams that swarmed and spewed below. By the third day, he noticed his altitude had steadily increased. There were no lights beneath him and no planes in sight. The pre-dawn horizon revealed snow-capped peaks ahead. He broadened his wings and slowed down to survey his surroundings. Suddenly he was blinded by a flurry of feathers. A flock of Tundra Swans overtook him from the east. They passed him on both sides, crossing his field of vision in interlacing V shapes. _I'll follow them,_ he thought. Within miles he tasted salt. He must be near the coast. He cleared a cliff and dove thousands of feet to feel the spray of the ocean.

Having not eaten for a while, he found he enjoyed fresh Pacific Halibut. He preferred it raw, caught with his own two hands. When the fish meat hit his gut, he knew he was really exhausted. Rising into the cliffs he spied an oddly shaped cavern cut into one of the highest ridges. The hole it made in the mountain resembled a man with a top hat. If he was lucky, it would provide cover and dry earth to sleep on. He'd only rest for a few hours before continuing his journey to find out how far he could go.

Throughout his sleep, his thoughts remained in the heavens. He dreamt he flew higher and higher until he reached an impossible distance, tens of thousands of feet above in the upper layers of the Earth's atmosphere. _Too high, too high,_ he told himself. The air thinned out. He couldn't think. One minute he was sweating, feverish, the next he was freezing. He felt pressure building up in his internal organs. _Must get down._ As he plummeted to Earth like a meteor, his wings caught fire. The ground was so close he smelled dirt. He stopped. Jean Grey held him. A thousand stars burned in her eyes.

_Warren…_

He awoke. Was it Jean's voice or just his dream? It was her. He knew it. He had to go back. He couldn't just fly on forever. Jean was calling. Let Charles Xavier try to stop him.

* * *

Scott Summers looked up at the girl in the sky. The midday sun set the flowing waves of her red hair ablaze with a hundred different scintillating hues. Gazing at her radiant form, he was mesmerized by her beauty.

_I love you, Jean…_

She didn't hear him, or if she did, she gave him no sign. Where was she? Maybe her surging powers were distracting her, or in her mind she was still locked in a deadly confrontation with Apocalypse. He couldn't let himself believe she was intentionally ignoring his thoughts. He feared the hundred-yard cable stretched taut between his chest and her levitating body was their sole connection.

"Jean, control it. I know you can. Come down to me," he transmitted, jerking the cable.

She had been in love with him until two and a half weeks ago. Now she wasn't aware he existed. _Calm down,_ Scott told himself. _She'll come around._ The Professor's regimen would succeed, even if it took several more weeks. She would be his Jean again. She would smile at him like she used to; the warmth would return to her emerald eyes.

But what if she was thinking about Warren? All Angel had to do to win her heart was fly after her one day and fall out of the sky? Summers had been jealous before, when Jean dated Duncan, the captain of the football team at Bayville High. But this was something else. Seeing Jean and Warren suspended together, enveloped in her brilliance, stung Scott to his core. The anger and pain was unlike anything he'd ever known. He felt betrayed.

"Jean!" he called to her. "Come down, please."

He had liked Warren. He had actually felt sorry for him. When he and Rogue first tracked down the elusive Angel of Manhattan, Scott had sympathized with Warren's isolation - way up in a skyscraper afraid to be seen because he could barely conceal his wings. But Warren couldn't have Jean. She was all Scott cared about. Losing her would mean losing everything he loved in the world.

Finally, the floating girl removed her gaze from the horizon and looked at him. The cable slackened as she descended. When she was within his grasp, he reached for her waist and gathered her into his arms.

"It's not so bad down here," he said, holding her.

Jean pushed his arms away and lowered herself to the ground. "Help me take this off, Scott," she requested, indicating the harness that bound her chest. "I won't fly away, I promise."

"Just wait until we're inside. There's no risk that way."

Dr. MacTaggert approached them. "Do as she says, Scott. I think it's time Miss Grey made her own decisions."

Scott wondered why Jean didn't do it herself. She could have manipulated the clasp using her telekinesis in far less time than it took him to fumble with the release using his fingers. Maybe she wanted to feel his hands. God, he hoped so. She rose upwards, as the harness dropped from her shoulders, and then landed solidly on the terrace, tapping the marble surface with the toes of her tennis shoes.

"Charles is in the Danger Room, Jean. He and Hank have something to show you," Moira told her. Jean nodded and calmly walked inside.

"She's humoring us. She doesn't want to be down here," said Scott, coiling the cable.

"Jean wants to stay with us, Scott," Moira assured him.

"Then what's going on with her and Worthington?"

* * *

Jean entered the antechamber that led to the Danger Room. The security sensor scanned her brain for identifying characteristics and then released the three-foot thick adamantium hatch. For the past seventeen days the cold, cheerless space had been her bedroom and living quarters. Strolling inside she saw a mammoth prison cell with reinforced adamantium walls. The Professor and Hank were waiting.

"I'm happy you walked here," Charles remarked.

"I can control it, Professor," said Jean, hopping onto the examination table she'd been strapped to for a considerable percentage of her incarceration.

"Perhaps you're doing better than I thought, Jean. You might be ready for this." Xavier motioned to Hank McCoy.

"Care to try this on?" Dr. McCoy offered, holding up a strange-looking black vest. It was halfway between a futuristic life preserver and a streamlined flak jacket.

"Lovely," she commented and walked over to Beast. "What does it do?" she asked while pulling it on.

"It will help you maintain a connection to the ground without a cable. The charged adamantium fibers inside increase in density the further their distance from the Earth's gravitational center…"

"Thanks, Hank." The Professor cut him off. "Let's save the complete explanation for another time. Jean doesn't need to fully understand how it works at this point. Is it comfortable?"

"It's better than the harness. But it's heavy."

"It's resisting the negative energy field you've been generating…" Hank, taking note of a disapproving glance from Xavier, stopped abruptly. "I have to get back to the lab," he moved towards the exit, "I have something in mid-process." Beast's last words were muffled by the hydraulic press of the vault closing behind him.

_You don't want me to learn how it works? _Grey's eyes flashed angrily.

"Jean, it's less likely you'll be tempted to disarm it if you're slightly unclear as to how it operates. Anyway, I think it will be all right for you to go back to your old room if you wear this as a precaution."

"I can sleep in my bed?"

"Sure, starting tonight if you like. Just keep this on to make sure you wake up there."


	9. Devil's Lake

**Chapter 8 – Devil's Lake**

The journey back east was far more difficult than the flight west had been. Whatever power Jean had given him was gone. Buffeted by strong headwinds, he struggled to clear each mile. He spent the time imagining their future together. They just needed a place of their own, beyond the reach of Xavier and the X-Men. Soaring alongside a lone albatross, he watched it rest while gliding on the wind. He mimicked its winged posture. Then he thought about resting. Instantly the full weight of his fatigue hit him. Warren was out at 10,000 feet.

* * *

Jean heard a tapping sound. She felt herself being pulled out of her bed, up into the air and over to the window of her bedroom. Warren was out there. The latch on the pane moved on its own accord, the glass opened, and she was out in the night sky. Warren's face emerged from the darkness strangely flickering, as if lit by firelight.

"Jean," he said, sailing towards her, "I'm in love with you."

Jean reached out to him and saw her arm was covered in flames. Horror-struck, she pulled it back. He embraced her before she could get away. His flesh, his wings were burning. She could smell his singed hair.

"Warren!" she screamed, throwing him off.

Jean saw her contorted face reflected in the Professor's deep black irises. She wasn't outside with Warren; she wasn't even dreaming alone in her room, she was with Charles…

"Jean, it's all right. Nothing has happened..."

She was shaking, "Why did you show me that, Professor?"

"The vision came from you, Jean."

* * *

Angela Preston didn't feel like sleeping. It was too early. Tonight, sitting out on the porch watching the waters of the vast lake fade into the misty night, she felt alive. She savored each sip of Chardonnay; Toby always complained it tasted like gasoline and cost too much money.

"Angie, I'm going to bed. Doug and I are gettin' up real early," Toby told her through the screen door.

"Yeah, I know, you're huntin' tomorrow," she responded, making no motion indicating she was going to follow him inside.

"We're gonna have duck for dinner."

"Can't wait. You go on."

"Ange, I know the skeeters don't like you, but don't stay out there all night gettin' drunk, okay?"

"I'll be in soon. Just gimme a minute." She was relieved she didn't have to say more.

She knew he was tired. He rarely lasted beyond his customary third beer. He walked off to bed. He didn't seem too angry. Well, she wasn't going to get up at six in the morning. She wouldn't be needed until the afternoon when the men would come back with their trophies. Doug's wife Jen and their twins Amber and Jayson would arrive and she and Jen would pluck the birds for the men to roast.

Angela decided the next few hours would be hers, hers alone; she would sit and look at the lake. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and if she tried she could still make out the military reservation radio tower on the opposite bank. She poured the last of the wine into her glass and walked out to the landing where the boat was secured. In the diffuse moonlight she discerned pockets of vapor, resembling layered silken veils, wafting across the liquid surface. Suddenly, she sensed a dark shape growing above her. Something huge slammed into the water, maybe a quarter mile from the shore. It looked like a bird, the largest bird she'd ever seen.

Discarding the wine glass in the grass, she quickly undid the rope tied to the small boat. Having watched Toby fiddle with the engine hundreds of times, she was fully capable of starting it in the dark. This creature was probably injured, she thought, rushing to the location where she estimated it had fallen. Fearful of hitting whatever it was, Angela turned off the motor. She used a flashlight she found under one of the life-vests to search. Guided by the current through the fog she came up on it, bobbing in the waves. The beam permeated the vapor illuminating a human form, a young man, with wings. Angela caught her breath. An angel had landed in Devil's Lake.

* * *

Rogue couldn't believe it, but she was starting to feel bad for Jean. Four days ago Jean had moved back upstairs, leaving the Danger Room to serve its primary function: a dynamic training environment where Rogue regularly got her ass kicked. Logan said they were "getting back into swing of things," whatever that meant. He ordered Rogue, Scott, Kitty, and Kurt to report for exercises that morning.

The four of them were surprised when Jean walked in. It soon became obvious that it wasn't just the weighted vest she was wearing that was different. Performing with robotic accuracy, she was seconds ahead of everyone. She waited after every maneuver, a bit impatiently, for her teammates to complete their moves. Despite the prowess displayed, when Rogue stole a glimpse of her teammate's vacant expression, she realized Jean wasn't truly with them; her mind was elsewhere.

After lunch, everyone gathered on the south lawn for a soccer game. The Jean Rogue knew would never miss an opportunity to show off her award-winning football skills, but the redhead failed to appear on the field. Rogue found it weird, but she felt compelled to go find her. Nobody had assigned her to the morale squad, she just got the feeling Grey needed her. And the even stranger thing was she didn't have to guess where to go, she knew: the Gazebo overlooking the reservoir.

The Gazebo, situated on an overhang which dropped precipitously into the massive Kensico Reservoir, was a loaded place for Rogue. Some months ago, she pushed the stone remains of Mystique, the woman she once called 'Mother', over the edge. Watching Mystique shatter into a million pieces, she reveled in the emotional release. Only later would she be haunted by the devastation that spread across the face of her brother, Kurt Wagner, also known as Nightcrawler. Jean was levitating a few feet off the cliff looking out, unblinking, at the horizon.

Rogue walked up behind her, "I thought that vest kept you on the ground."

"I can't go far," Jean responded, maintaining her thousand-mile stare.

"What's this thing with you watching the skies all the time? What are you looking for?" the words had barely escaped her lips when the answer manifested in Rogue's mind. Jean was searching for Warren.

_You know…_

"It's okay," Rogue said, as Jean whipped around 180º to face her, "you can trust me."

Jean's stony demeanor crumbled, "I don't know what to do…"


	10. Touch Me

**Chapter 9 – Touch Me**

He was floating on his back. His splayed wings must provide additional buoyancy, she figured. Angela rolled off the boat into the water. Paddling with one arm and towing a life-vest in the other, she swam alongside his lean, muscular form. He certainly looked like he fell from heaven. What was he doing here and why had he fallen? He was breathing, she was relieved to discover, but it sounded shallow and labored. She lifted his head and placed the life-vest around his neck. As she deftly tied the rope affixed to the stern around his waist and the part of his back where his wings jutted out from his clothing, she longed to let her movements linger into caresses.

After being towed the short distance back to the landing, the angel-man appeared to be stable. Angela pulled up under his arms to lift him onto the wooden platform. His eyelids twitched. He awoke.

"It's all right," she said, leaning over him.

He got up on his elbows and started to raise himself. Angela backed away as he unfurled his wings to their full extent. The alarmed expression on his face betrayed his fear.

His voice sounded shaky, "Where is this?.." He staggered.

Preston rushed over and steadied him. He leaned into her as she led him to the vacant cottage next to the one she shared with Toby. Most years the house would have been rented, but this summer fewer people had come to Devil's Lake. Finding it unlocked, she helped the limping, half-conscious Angel inside. After guiding him to the larger of the two beds, she watched him lie down. His outstretched wings exceeded the edges of the mattress; the tips brushed up against the walls of the room.

She didn't sleep during the remaining three hours that elapsed before her husband awoke. Instead Angela took a shower, changed her clothes, and made coffee. Toby was pleasantly surprised.

* * *

Studying Jean's face, Rogue noticed her eyes had changed. Golden sparks spiraled inside her irises, glittering like fireworks.

"I can't stop thinking about him," said Grey, drawing closer.

"I know how you feel," Rogue stated honestly. She was becoming disoriented. She saw herself standing outside the Gazebo, on the edge of the cliff, staring at…Jean. The words 'psychic feedback' rose to the surface of her spinning mind as she recalled their past telepathic encounters. She felt her feet leave the ground. Was she perceiving Grey's weightlessness or was Jean suspending her?

"You should leave me alone." Jean wasn't shouting, but in Rogue's ears her voice echoed throughout the reservoir valley.

"It's too late for that," Rogue replied, dangling in mid-air.

_Why do you want to help me?_ Jean asked. The churning sparks had grown into whirlpools of fire.

"You helped save all of us." Rogue tried to stabilize herself.

_As did you._

"Well, that is what we're supposed to do. I can handle it, Jean. Talk to me."

_Okay…_

Rogue was transported. Floating high above the terrace, she beheld distant mountains of cottony clouds set against a gleaming blue sky. Following the arc of the afternoon sun, she saw something. At first she could barely distinguish him from the brilliant background, but as he flew towards her his iconic form made her heart skip a beat. In moments he was with her, sailing on the wind, matching every subtle shift in her aerial position. He would do anything for her… A switch was thrown within Rogue's chest. It ignited a crackling current, which throbbed in her throat and pulsed between her thighs.

"Oh, god," she moaned.

As Warren took her into his arms she could smell his flesh was on fire. She was ablaze but he wouldn't let go.

"Warren! Stop! Don't touch me!" Rogue cried, pushing away a non-existent, burning Angel. Sensing Rogue's anguish, Jean instantly cut-off their connection. Rogue dropped to the ground.

She got up a moment later and brushed the dirt off the black synthetic material of her pants. "Give me a little warning next time, so I don't fall on my ass, all right?"

Jean was surprised by her rapid recovery.

"Jean, you aren't the first mutant to be scared to touch someone."

_He'll burn…_

"Maybe you're just seeing what you're afraid of. You've never burned anybody," Rogue removed one of the gloves that protected those around her from the potentially deadly results of contact with her skin and held her right hand out to Jean Grey. "Why don't we try it? Touch me."


	11. Lost from the Flock

**Chapter 10 – Lost from the Flock**

"We won't be back 'til three or four, most likely," Toby told her, walking out the door.

Doug followed him, "Thanks for the coffee, Angie."

"It was no problem, none at all. See you guys later…Happy huntin'," she replied from the rear of the kitchen.

After a minute had passed, Angela ran to the bedroom and grabbed a blanket. From the small bathroom she retrieved a towel, some soap, and her shampoo bottle. Stopping at the front door she observed Toby and Doug sputtering away in the boat. With the items bundled under her arm, she sprinted to the adjacent cottage.

The morning sunshine poured in through the curtainless window frame onto the sleeping young man. The light bouncing off his white, feathered wings gave his face an ethereal glow. _He can't be more than twenty or twenty-one,_ she estimated. She gently unfolded the blanket and draped it over his torso on top of the sheet and coverlet she had thrown on him earlier.

Was she looking at a monster? That's what Pastor Wertham would call him – mutant, spawn of the evil one. Angela had often heard the good Pastor's sermons regurgitated by Jen while the two of them were making potato salad or fixing Amber's hair. Not that Jen ever physically attended Wertham's church; she watched him on satellite. But the girl was nonetheless a disciple, spouting his wisdom. Mutants were the product of deviant sexual experimentation and secret government projects inter-breeding humans and animals. It was the mutant-loving media that claimed a group of them called the X-Men had saved the world from Apocalypse.

Angela recalled a news report, no doubt a product of the mutant-loving media, that said these strange beings lived in New York or went to a school there. What was this magnificent mutant angel doing in North Dakota? His peculiar clothes – must be high-tech synthetics – hung a little loosely on him in places and his cheeks were a bit drawn; he looked hungry. Had he been without food? Was he on the run?

"Where am I?" Warren almost shouted, waking suddenly.

"You're safe. It's okay. My name's Angela, Angela Preston, and I found you out in the lake last night. I'm the only one who knows you're here."

"You pulled me out of the water…"

"Listen, this place is what you might call remote. No one's commin' by for a while." He ceased cringing. "I was just gonna to make some breakfast. Would you like somethin' to eat?" He responded by sinking back into the bed, rolling onto his side and returning to slumber.

After fifteen minutes, Angela returned. Using a thick, old steel cookie-sheet as an improvised serving tray, she brought a bowl of cereal with milk and toast and a mug of coffee to the table in the small kitchen. She had been on the verge of frying him a couple eggs but changed her mind when she remembered his feathers.

"Excuse me, I brought you some food," she announced.

His eyes cracked open. She waited, leaning against the wall. While retracting his wings, he sat up and pushed the covers aside. He walked the short distance to the table, sat down and started eating.

"Thank you," he said, after a couple mouthfuls, briefly making eye contact.

Though he only met her gaze for a moment, the fleeting self-image he glimpsed curbed his appetite. He must look pretty ragged. This woman had saved him, some freak with wings, instead of leaving him to drown. Perhaps he should formally present himself.

He couldn't help thinking of how his mother would react. He could see the frown darkening her brow. Eight months ago, the last time they were together, her creased forehead displayed how deeply disappointed she was that her only child was refusing what was perhaps his final opportunity to be properly presented to society – as an escort to one of the season's debutantes at the Assembly Ball. His irrational insistence on staying whole was a rejection of the rest of the world. Having a sixteen-foot wingspan "precludes the wearing of white tie," as she put it. If he would just agree to the surgery, he would look so dashing at the cotillion. The young ladies would all compete for his attention. Putting down his spoon, Warren stood up.

"I'm here wolfing down your food because you pulled me out of the lake. Please forgive me…uh… Your name was…"

"Angela Preston."

"I'm Warren Worthington."

"Hell, I would have fished out anythin', anybody, I mean, I thought you were a bird lost from the flock or somethin'…"

"I owe you a lot."

"You look like you've been through hell," she was noticing the many abrasions on his clothes and skin. "I put a clean towel and some soap and stuff in the bathroom. And uh, I don't know what your clothes are made out of but I was just about to throw a load in the laundry…"

"There's a washing machine?"

"Next door…"

"Oh. These can be washed, easily. I know I've torn them up - I've been testing the material, you could say. If you put them in the drier long enough the tears will seal."

"I'll come back in ten minutes. You leave your thin's out here, while you take a shower, and I'll put them in the wash."


	12. Misaligned

**Chapter 11 – Misaligned**

Rogue was nauseous. She knew where she was – the medical bay. But everything felt wrong. For a moment, she thought she was pinned to the ceiling looking at the floor. But if that were the case, she wouldn't be staring into big bright operating lights. Thick metal bars slatted up and down the length of her body held her in. Her hair hung in the air. Either the rest of the world was messed-up, upside down, or she was. Rogue considered her history and bet she was the one misaligned.

Dr. MacTaggert entered the room, "What were you girls doing?"

"What do you mean?" Rogue asked.

"You don't remember?"

Rogue closed her eyes. The image of Jean passed out in the grass by the Gazebo materialized in her consciousness. Above, mid-twilight had set in, dying the clouds crimson. Using Jean's powers she soared into the sky; she could go anywhere. She flew towards the setting sun. Marveling at the brilliant sphere she saw millions of colors, more than she ever thought existed, stirring inside billions of sparks, boiling in vast oceans of fire.

Out of nowhere, blustering storm clouds massed in front of her, darkening the horizon. Turbulent winds spun into a funnel at her feet. It sucked her down. She struggled to break loose; lightning crackled at the tip of her nose.

"Storm had to use some rather extreme measures to bring you down, Rogue."

It was the Professor.

"Is Jean here?" Rogue asked.

"No. She's in her room resting. Apparently, she's all right," Moira answered, using a control to tilt the bed until Rogue was in a nearly upright position.

"Was this your idea or hers?" Charles asked.

"She was afraid she'd burn anybody she touched. I told her to try me…" Rogue had to concentrate to keep from drifting back into blackness. "I thought if I absorbed some of that energy she'd feel better."

Her sight flitted from the Professor's inverted head to Moira's. Dr. MacTaggert was static, her eyes locked on Xavier's. She was talking to him, without making a sound.

_The incident may prove useful, Charles. Jean was knocked out for a good twenty minutes…_

Rogue was hearing their thoughts. And the Professor knew it. Abruptly, he turned from Moira.

_Rogue, you need to sleep._ His words bore into her mind.

Unable to wrest her eyes from the Professor's, Rogue heard Moira prepare an injection. She couldn't even squirm. Xavier held her with his paralyzing gaze. Would Jean have been able to pull out of this one? A cold sensation spread over her from a quick prick in her shoulder.

* * *

The material was entirely restored. What remarkable fabric. Expensive, she was sure. Angela inspected the folds and fastenings of the upper portion of Warren's costume. It hooked together below the wing on each side, she reckoned. Every shirt he wore must be custom designed. She heard rumbling outside. A car pulled up.

"Angie! Ange!" For the first time in her life, the voice she heard struck her heart with fear. Jen had shown up early with the twins.

Angela wrapped Warren's clothes up in a large beach towel. She couldn't take them to him yet. If she so much as hinted the other cottage was unlocked, Jen would scoop up the kids and race over to look inside. She didn't want to imagine what her friend would do if she discovered a winged mutant wearing nothing but one of Angela's towels. She put the bundle back in the drier to lessen the chances Jen or the kids would find it.

"You gonna open this door, Ange?"

On the other side of the screen door with her mommy bag slung over her shoulder, Jen clenched Amber in one arm and held Jayson's tiny hand with the other. The children wore matching t-shirts. His was blue with yellow letters and hers was pink with white. The same message was emblazoned on both: "Jesus Loves People, Not Mutants."

Angela opened the door and took Amber into her arms while letting Jen and Jayson inside. Jen started in on the subject of the day – the failed marriage of their old friend Vera, whose husband, Tim, allegedly ran off with a teen-aged meth head. Angela lured the five-year-olds into the TV room with milk and animal crackers. Jen closely trailed her back to the kitchen, ceaselessly describing the problems she had seen from the beginning with Vera and Tim's relationship. Jen always followed her around everywhere. How was she going to get away? The Angel must be wondering where she was.

"I think Vera should call the cops on that little slut. If they picked her up they'd find that crystal on her and hopefully arrest them both," Jen proclaimed, putting her bag down on the table. Angela wondered if Jen's snubnose .38 revolver was inside.

"Jen, I gotta go pee. I'll be right back, okay. There's iced tea in the fridge," Angela said, backing out of the room.

Angela walked past the door to the bathroom and stopped at the laundry machines. Quickly snatching the towel containing Warren's clothes, she jogged to the backdoor on the other side of the living room.

She yelled to Jen, "Forgot somethin' in the truck!"

"You need somethin' from the truck to pee?" Jen hollered back.

Angela didn't answer. She leapt onto the grass and ran to the other cottage. After taking a moment to slow her breathing, she went in. Wearing terrycloth around his waist, he was perched on the edge of a chair in the darkest corner of the room.

"Sorry it took so long. My friend and her kids just got here," she told him, handing him the bundle.

"I saw. Thank you."

"You saw…"

"I have good eyesight."

"Well, I'll be on my way. But um…you should go as soon as you get dressed. My friend doesn't uh, understand mut…"

"I know. I saw them."

"Oh, the t-shirts. They're pretty awful. So, um, good-bye. Happy flyin' back to wherever…"

Warren took her hand, "Thanks again."

Angela, holding the beach towel, closed the door of the cottage behind her and turned to walk back into her normal life. Her heart was pounding. She knew Jen would ask about the smile that spread involuntarily across her face. She was only a few steps away when Jen opened the backdoor and came outside.

"What were you doin' over there?" she asked.

"I left this in the truck," Angela explained, presenting the towel.

"The truck's out front. You're comin' back from that cottage," Jen pointed at the other house.

While she searched for a passable response, Angela realized all she needed to do was distract Jen for a few more minutes. Warren would go out through the front door. And after he had safely taken off, she wouldn't care what Jen or anybody else thought about what she'd done that day…

"Angie! Angie!"

It was Toby calling her from the boat fifty yards from the landing. Something was wrong. Even from this distance, Angela could see panic on her husband's face. Where was Doug? She and Jen rushed to the dock. As the craft drew closer, Toby's expression became more horrible. Within seconds the women saw why. Doug was squinched into the cavity of the vessel. He was covered in blood.

"Angie, Jen, thank god you're here… He got shot, in the arm. There was an accident…with his gun…"

"Doug!" Jen cried.

"Angie, get the truck and pull it down here. We'll get him to the emergency room…Jen, I promise."

"Try to put pressure on the wound," Angela advised, giving Jen the towel.

Angela ran into the living room on her way to the kitchen to get the key to truck. Amber and Jason were laughing at Dinosaur King playing on TV. They were suddenly quieted by Toby's voice booming from outside. He was yelling at the top of his lungs.

"You get the hell outta here, FREAK! You will NOT TOUCH him!"

Angela whipped around, opened the door and looked out at the pier. A flying man with wings like an angel circled the boat.

"Tell me where the nearest hospital is… So we can save his life!" Warren tried to shout sense into the people below.

Toby clocked the Angel with his Remington Wingmaster Shotgun. Angela knew her husband had never seen anything with wings he didn't want to shoot. A picture of Jen's mommy bag on the kitchen table flashed into her mind. She needed that .38 revolver.


	13. I'm Not Afraid of You

**Chapter 12 – I'm Not Afraid of You**

"He's ruptured a major artery! He will die from blood loss unless you let me take him!" Warren pleaded.

"I'm givin' you five seconds before I shoot! Starting now – ONE, TWO, THREE…FOUR…" In the periphery of his vision Toby Preston saw his wife approaching. When she reached the dock she raised her arm and aimed a revolver at his head. "Holy Jesus! Angie! What the HELL are you doin'?"

"Put down the shotgun, Toby, or I will use this…"

"You're on the side of this DEMON from HELL?" Toby continued to track Warren with his Remington.

"He's no demon, his name is Warren Worthin'ton. Listen to me, it will take us forty minutes to get to the hospital in the truck. Doug will never make it! Now put down the gun or I swear I'll fire!" Angela yelled.

"Toby, do what she says!" Jen screamed. "I don't want Doug to die!" Toby looked down from the bird-man and saw Jen's face stained with running mascara, "Please…" she sobbed.

Angela watched her husband lower his weapon. "The closest medical facilities are there," she called up to Warren. She gestured in the direction of the distant radio tower on the military reservation. "Camp Grafton, across the lake, has an infirmary…"

Warren swooped in and gathered Doug's bleeding body into his arms. In seconds he was far away.

Angela hollered after him, "It's a closed military base! They're just as likely to shoot!"

She heard her words trail off as the Angel, cradling the wounded hunter, disappeared into the distance.

* * *

Rogue awoke. Her chest slammed into the cold metal slats across her bed. Opening her eyes to total darkness – the lights in the medical bay were off – she found nothing to indicate what time it was. But her internal clock told her it was late.

Jean's energy still burned within her, yet Rogue sensed it beginning to ebb away. She was not going to waste these last hours penned in, wide awake. The forces pulling her upwards smushed her body against the inside of the cage. It was becoming really uncomfortable. She had to break out. Rogue thought back to one of her early sessions with the Professor. When she absorbed the powers of another mutant, he instructed her, she should use the knowledge she acquired to actuate her new abilities.

_What would Jean do?_ _Move the bars… But they're adamantium, unbendable, unbreakable. Think like Jean…_

If she was locked in, all she needed to do was unlock the restraints. In her mind she pictured tiny teeth at the base of the slats clenching the metal frame. She heard hundreds of little buzzing circuits sealing the connection. With a single thought she reversed the circuitry. The bars lifted and Rogue sailed towards the ceiling. Having spent quite a bit of time in recovery since she'd first come to live at the mansion, she knew the layout of the space pretty well. She succeeded in guessing where the light switch was and flicked it on.

Able to see, she flipped around and flew to the exit. She sensed the wires that linked the alarm system to the portal and severed them. Then, without alerting anyone, she floated out into the hallway. In minutes she emerged from the platform transport onto the ground floor. Shafts of moonlight pooled on the polished floorboards below the tall windows of the main entrance. It must be well past midnight; everyone else was most likely sleeping. Though she wasn't aware of a clear destination, she soon found herself upstairs, hovering in the corridor by Scott Summers' bedroom.

She turned the doorknob telekinetically and drifted in. Scott was lying on his back. She couldn't tell if his eyes were closed – he wore the protective glasses even at night – but the regular rising and falling of his chest suggested he was asleep.

Floating six inches above, Rogue observed him. She touched his face with her mind. The contact made her warm all over. With Jean's abilities she could feel Scott's skin without sending him into a coma. She could kiss him…

"What's going on, Rogue?" Scott grabbed her gloved right hand.

"I didn't mean to wake you… I... uh…" Rogue stammered, while retracting her hand and rising higher.

"You're using Jean's powers… Did you touch her again? Where is she?" he demanded, sitting up.

Without understanding how, Rogue knew exactly where Jean was. "She's outside…with Warren…" she blurted out.

* * *

The moon hung high, lighting his way east. Slicing through the clouds, Warren remembered the faces of the men at the Camp Grafton infirmary when they saw he had saved Doug's life. There was only a small training unit on the reservation. The arrival of a winged mutant with a critically wounded local caught them off guard.

Warren was grateful the men didn't immediately assume they were under attack and concerned themselves instead with treating the bleeding hunter. They had no doctor, only a combat medic and a medical assistant. The two soldiers agreed with Warren that an immediate blood transfusion was critical. But the plasma and blood supplies had not been restocked. They had nothing.

"Set up a direct transfusion," Warren told them, sitting down next to Doug.

"What? What blood type are you? Wait, we don't even know what type he is," the medic argued.

"And you're a mutant. We don't know what kind of blood you have," added the assistant.

"I'm type O, but more importantly, my blood might help him heal… I can't explain it right now, but if you don't take this chance he's already dead!"

Moments later, the effects were obvious. Doug's heart rate and pulse normalized. His expression had transformed from a pained grimace to a wearied visage of exhaustion. Everyone was convinced he was going to survive. The soldiers shook Warren's hand before he took off. He would never forget their smiles of admiration.

It was around two in the morning, he guessed, when the light from the full moon illuminated the wide banks of the Hudson. The mansion was less than eight miles away.

He could feel Jean's presence below. She was awake, waiting for him. Then he saw her. She was curled around, levitating above the north wing of the mansion, spinning with the wind. The moonlight revealed something dark binding her torso, but Warren saw no cable. Was she free? He re-oriented his body to mirror her horizontal position. Her voice came into his head.

_Warren, you should go..._

It was not what he expected to hear.

"Jean… I'll do whatever you want, but please look at me," he moved closer.

Jean pulled her head up and straightened her knees. Almost in perfect synch, their bodies rotated 90º; facing each other on a vertical axis, they circled slowly.

"I called out to you, I know. I couldn't help it. I kept thinking about you…" her voice trembled. Even in the dimness, he could see tears in her eyes.

"So I'm here," he said, gliding in.

"Warren… The Professor, Moira, no one understands what's happening to me. I might lose control. I could harm you…"

His face was right next to hers, "Jean, you're not going to hurt anyone." He extended his wings, enfolding her. "I'm not afraid of you," he whispered.

Suddenly Jean sensed Scott below. Rage fueled an optic blast shooting from his eyes. It was directed at Warren and it was intended to kill him. Scott focused all his anger into the beam. Angel's wings would combust...

Jean's fears were coming true. He was about to burst into flames! She had to send him away. She infused every particle of his being with her energy. In a flash that momentarily lit up the sky as bright as daylight, he was gone.

The massive optic blast hit Jean, knocking her to the ground.

"Jean!" Scott cried, overcome with horror. He leaped to catch her, but he was too late. He ran to her crumpled form on the lawn. He turned her over and held her head in his arms. His tears vaporized instantly, burning up in his fusion fueled orbs.

Rogue rushed in. "Oh, no," she gasped, looking at Jean. The remains of the vest smoldered where the outer fabric had fused with the adamantium fibers.

Jean came to, weakly, "What have I done… Where is Warren? What have I done to him?"


	14. University

**Chapter 13 - University**

Professor Jacob Steiner was late. Throughout the term this would happen periodically and it rarely caused him or his students any concern. But it was the first class of the new academic year: the course he'd designed personally, Accelerated Physics Seminar I. The lesson plan condensed all the material normally taught in four semesters into one; and only highly advanced undergraduates with exceptional achievement in both physics and mathematics were considered for admission. He selected each candidate based on his or her academic accomplishments and an interview. Out of thousands of hopeful science majors, Steiner had accepted ten.

While briskly making his way to Bob Parson's office, Jacob checked his antique Elgin wristwatch. His class was three minutes old and counting. Why did Bob need to meet with him so urgently?

"Bob, I got your message. I'm late for class already. Can't this wait?" Steiner asked, walking up to Parsons' desk.

Parsons handed him a revised roster for Accelerated Physics Seminar I. Jacob was surprised to see eleven students listed. Bob pointed out the addition near the middle of the column of names.

"Jean Grey? Why should I let this girl in my class? I haven't interviewed her, or even seen her transcript… Is this for one of your endowment friends? You know, this is a small, nimble group, a slow student…"

"I doubt you'll find her slow. She's a mutant. The first openly known mutant ever accepted. Jake, she's supposedly brilliant," Parsons explained.

"Oh yes. I saw something about a mutant rights activist in the bulletin. I thought she was in biology."

"She is, for now… But she wants to take your class. A growing interest in physics, Xavier told me."

"Charles Xavier? You've spoken with him?" Jacob inquired.

"Yes, just yesterday. Did you know he taught here twenty years ago? Pioneer in biophysics. Practically created the department. Before he started his Institute. Jean is his brightest student," Bob answered.

"Jean Grey is one of the X-Men… What can she do?"

"She has telekinetic abilities and she's a telepath. I talked to Simmons in bio and Xavier briefed their entire faculty. I didn't want you going in there unaware of her unique situation."

"Telekinesis, that is unique. Perhaps the class should study how the existence of her powers has thrown our entire concept of physics out the window… Does she have a sense of humor? Or will she melt my brain if I hurt her feelings?" Steiner was only half-joking.

"She's a tame one. Xavier has assured the administration she won't cause any disturbances."

Now he was really late – eight minutes. Charging into the room, Jacob scanned those present and recognized only the ten pupils he'd anticipated. _Good._ He would rather have a bit more time to make arrangements for the exceptional Miss Grey. After closing the door behind him, he put down his bag and prepared to address the room.

The door swung back open with a bang, turning the heads of all the students. It felt like a gust of wind, but no gale existed. Panic took hold of Professor Steiner. Was a telekinetic monster about to burst in and toss his physics class into the air like a bunch of confetti? He sucked in his breath.

A strange young woman entered. 'Strange' was the only word he could think of to describe her because she was unlike anyone else he'd ever seen, quite different from the glossy celebrity he'd expected. She entered trepidly, wearing a trim sort of flak jacket while clinging to her laptop like it was an anchor. His fear disintegrated. She looked small for a mutant warrior. Her blazing red hair was pulled back tightly from her face and twisted up firmly into a chignon. Could that color possibly be natural? She was a mutant, after all. A lose strand curled up oddly towards the ceiling.

Jean Grey met the combined stares of Accelerated Physics Seminar I with a slight smile and drifted into a seat in the back row. A couple of minutes elapsed before Professor Steiner remembered what he was supposed to be doing and began his lecture.


	15. The Skylight

**Chapter 14 – The Skylight**

Sixty stories atop Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan, Warren Worthington III stretched out on his divan. It was positioned in the middle of the large room he now referred to as his office. With 2500 square feet of floor space, most people would consider 'large' an understatement. The divan was custom built to support his back while he extended his wings. Looking up, he beheld the stained glass skylight nestled in the apex of his thirty-foot high, coffered mahogany ceiling.

The sun, at high noon, was directly above. The effect was amazing. His grandfather, Warren Worthington I, must have placed it overhead just so every facet would be radiant at midday.

It was an Art Deco extravagance. It depicted a woman, a female angel, naked, with iridescent wings. She hovered before a stylized sunset. The converging cover outside deepened the coloring of the panes representing the clouds: the reds turned dark crimson, the blues lapis. Then, as the sun asserted itself above New York City, the spectrum brightened; the colors of her wings intensified – oranges and purples became golds and burgundies. Her skin shimmered. The more he looked at her, the more he was convinced the artist had known the model intimately. The curves of her breasts and the contours of her lips seemed so real they could have only been drawn from experience.

The question of who the subject really was disturbed him. The face was unmistakable – gold-green eyes twinkling like jewels framed by flaming plumes of red hair. He had heard about his grandfather's lovers: actresses, dancers, and various others. They were all essentially prostitutes, his mother had told him, using less precise terminology. Who was she? Some anonymous flapper? Who happened to look exactly like Jean Grey?

He first detected the window a little more than a month earlier, right after their last encounter.

He still didn't understand what had happened that night. They were revolving together slowly, less than fifty yards beyond the roof of the Institute. The soft light of the full moon defined the shifting contours of their floating forms against the dark sky. He wanted only to hold her, to comfort her, and to let her know he was there to help in any way he could, even if it meant leaving her alone.

Suddenly he couldn't see. A burst of light seared his vision. Powerful vibrations rippled through his body; his pulse quickened. He was being torn apart. Then, in an instant, it was over. Jean and the Institute had disappeared. He was falling.

His wings opened automatically, breaking his descent before he slammed into the Manhattan skyline. Unbelievably, he had been transported thirty-five miles south in less than a second. Gliding towards the familiar outline of the Worthington Tower, he welcomed the sight of his rigid sisters – the winged goddesses of commercial conquest mounted like sentries on each corner of the roof. Was it the moonlight or were they smiling? He had been gone for seven days. Maybe they missed him.

But the moment he touched down on the cold glass rooftop their illusory smiles dissolved, leaving their stone faces chillingly lifeless and silent. Angel doubted anyone living had noted his absence. A sinking depression weighted his steps as he lumbered over to open the hatch to the maintenance chute that led inside. He drew in his wings and squeezed into the narrow passage. There was a heavy lump in his stomach even though he'd had nothing to eat for over eight hours.

He had no idea how she'd done it, yet he knew Jean had sent him away. He felt alone before, but now an icy sense of isolation crystallized his fears of a desolate, solitary future. Climbing down the ladder, the chute seemed to go on forever. Why was it taking so long to get down? A question he'd often pondered circumnavigating the building came into his head. What was in between the roof and the 60th floor? There was roughly a hundred-foot gap, judging from the exterior.

Three quarters of the way down the chute, he stopped. In front of him was a marine-style portal. It reminded him of the wheel-activated doors he'd struggled to turn as a boy on his father's yacht, before the development of his wings prohibited outdoor summer activities. He recalled seeing it many times. He'd always been in such a rush to get away that he'd never tried to open it.

At first the wheel seemed immovable. He waited for a minute and tried again. He locked his feet around the rails of the ladder and concentrated, gripping the metal as hard as he could. It turned and he entered. He found a vast empty space with thick concrete walls lit only by the ambient light from the city coming through the transparent rooftop.

He had always wondered why his grandfather had gone to the expense of laying glass on the roof. Why did he build this chamber? Walking towards the center of the space he noticed chains attached to a series of enormous gears running up to the ceiling. The roof was retractable.

Snippets of the past coalesced in his memory. He was a small child in the family skybox at Giants Stadium pointing excitedly at the Goodyear Blimp. He was trying to express his desire to soar into the sky like the airship. His father, Warren Worthington II, didn't understand. He just voiced the word, "zeppelins," in a low tone.

"Shut-up about that thing, War… Your grandfather spent millions to launch those damned Hindenburgs from the Tower. Terrible mistake. Remember, War, never invest in aerospace. Don't you become another flyboy type with his head in the clouds… One of these days you'll learn who Howard Hughes was. A real nut-job, it turned out. But at least, once he was grounded, he got into real estate. Now that's how you make money, kid. Buy what's here, on the land."

The Worthington Tower could launch zeppelins! Warren was standing in a dirigible hanger. The broadening dawn exposed another unusual aspect of the hull-like room, the floor. It wasn't your average poured concrete. It looked more like porcelain. In the middle of the expanse was a large circle composed of tinted panes. He guessed it was sixteen feet in diameter, the same length as his wingspan.

He discerned the outlines of a massive stained glass window. Originally, it must have been a skylight for the 60th story below – the old executive penthouse, which had, in recent years, become his apartment. Yet he'd never experienced the sun shining on him through the prism of a multicolored skylight. He only knew of a dropped ceiling, made up of those ubiquitous beige tiles that blanket corporate workplaces, municipal buildings, and schoolrooms.

The mystery solved itself in Angel's mind. His father had always hated his grandfather's opulent taste. After the old man's death, his dad renovated the Tower and made sure the top floor office was transformed into a streamlined, modern executive suite, which no longer resembled a robber baron's private bordello.

Warren imagined his father took particular pleasure in covering over the skylight. He probably judged the piece mildly pornographic, a garish paean to the old man's wantonness. The magnificent red-haired angel had languished, forgotten, in a prison of asbestos-laden insulation and plastic fibers for decades; but now, he, Warren Worthington III, was about to rescue her.

Within hours of his discovery, several workers arrived to begin dismantling the false ceiling of the 60th floor. Viktor, his doorman and perhaps the only person he truly trusted, had hired them. At first the men were nervous with a winged mutant hovering around the work-site, but eventually they became accustomed to him.

It was the middle of a bright day in August, two weeks later, when they reached the center of the window. The tiles obscuring her head and torso were removed. Her face, imbued with sunlight, seemed alive. The workmen stopped and gazed up at her.

"That's a beautiful woman," one said.

Warren wanted to send them away immediately. He wanted to be alone with her. With a single stroke of his wings he could be up there, kissing her garnet lips. But that was crazy. Only the real Jean could return his embrace.

Now the exquisite seraph burned, fully revealed, floating in a crystal sky in the middle of his office. It was early September. Rolling over onto the side of the divan, he grabbed the control for his digital video recorder. He replayed a newscast from earlier that day.

A woman reporter onscreen spoke to the camera amid a throng of students rushing to class.

"I'm here at 116th Street and Broadway hoping to catch the new college freshman everybody's wondering about, Jean Grey, member of the X-Men, turned full-time undergraduate. There she is…"

The camera operator kept the reporter in the frame as they hurried over to a pale girl wearing sunglasses with vibrant red hair twisted up into a bun. Her chest was encased in a black vest with crisscrossed straps – a scaled-down version of the weighted harness he'd seen her in previously, Warren guessed. Jean must still be having problems staying on the ground. Grey clutched her laptop case when she saw the advancing reporter and camera operator. A stray strand of her red hair rose into the air, betraying her impulse to flee from this human interest.

"Jean Grey, have you left the X-Men? Or are you still part of this militant organization? Do residents here on the Upper West Side need to be concerned that a mutant war will break out on their doorsteps?"

After barking her inquiry, the reporter thrust a microphone in front of Jean's mouth for a response.

"Humans with an expressed 'X' gene are less likely than those without to commit acts of violence against others. We all need to seek peace. I am no longer one of the X-Men. I'm just another student here at the University. And I'm late for class. I have no further comments. Excuse me…"

Jean lifted a few inches into the air and instantly slipped out of view. Warren reran the part where she sailed out of the picture. Playing it at half-speed, he watched her escape; she skated between the jostling figures pouring through the campus entrance.

He lay down again and went back to gazing at the incandescent angel. Her green-gold eyes flashed at him. Jean Grey was probably sitting in a classroom uptown, he thought. She was so close. The University was only four miles from the Worthington Tower. He could fly there in minutes.

But he knew Jean would call if she wanted him. He wouldn't act like Scott and Professor Xavier, by stalking her or trying to control her. He would simply remain vigilant. He'd keep listening for her. Perhaps she would pass his way… When she needed him, he would be there. Until then, he had the skylight. The glorious figure smiled at him. Sometimes having a glimpse of happiness was enough.


	16. Lilandra

**Chapter 15 – Lilandra**

Hank McCoy trudged through the dark hallway towards the lab. It was three o'clock in the morning, but he couldn't sleep.

Hours before, he and Charles had conducted a test run of the new code under development for Cerebro. Barely into phantom mode, the program suddenly re-launched. It was a minor upset; afterwards it appeared to be functioning fine. But it made Beast uneasy.

When Xavier accessed Cerebro, his consciousness fused with the system. The connection rendered him psychologically and telepathically vulnerable. If Cerebro suffered any malicious interference, or a glitch occurred within the software, the great brain of Charles Xavier could be damaged irreparably.

McCoy's bulky fingers nimbly tapped out the code that opened the laboratory. He blinked upon entering, finding the lights on, as opposed to what he'd expected. Once his vision adjusted, he saw the back of Xavier's head. Charles was still there, staring at a computer display, right where Beast had left him five hours ago.

"Hank, I've figured it out," he said, without turning around.

"Figured out what?"

"I know why Cerebro reinitialized earlier."

"Enlighten me," McCoy replied, taking a seat.

"I found this sequence repeated several times." Professor X indicated an unfamiliar series of commands.

"What the Hell?" Hank was alarmed.

"I believe it's part of the hieratic codex we incorporated."

"From the Eye of Ages…" McCoy gasped.

"I want to try it out."

"What?"

"I could use your help."

"Charles, this is madness. It could be some sort of viral agent. The codex, the Eye of Ages, it's alien technology. We have no idea what we're dealing with!"

"Hank, I appreciate your concerns. But I do know what we're dealing with. I was linked with Apocalypse. This is a telepathic message and it might be from long ago or far away but it's urgent. I feel it. I have to learn what it says."

"Now? Can't we do this in the morning?"

"It is morning," Charles replied, steering his chair in the direction of the door.

"You're being reckless. I won't help you," Hank said, following the Professor out of the lab, "unless you let me set some limits."

"What sort of limits?" Xavier inquired, as they proceeded towards the far end of the corridor.

"We'll run it for five minutes, that's it. If everything's okay, we'll start it up again later. After we evaluate the results."

Charles turned quickly into the antechamber that led to Cerebro. McCoy scrambled after him. The security sensor recognized the Professor's telepathic authorization and released the massive vault in front of them. Xavier wheeled up to the console in the center of the immense circular area and placed the cerebral interface on his head. The Beast sat beside him.

"I'm going to initialize," Charles braced his arms against the rests on his chair, as if he were preparing himself for physical impact.

"I need 35 seconds," Hank requested as he set up new time parameters for Charles' Cerebro session on his customized keypad. "I know you're not going to explain this to me, but I wish you'd try. Would you be doing this if Moira hadn't gone back to Scotland? Or if Jean was still here?"

"Intializing… Hank, we'll discuss it later. I can see them, the symbols…" Xavier's voice trailed off. His body relaxed while his eyes focused on some distant plane McCoy could not perceive.

"Tell me which symbols, Charles."

"A crane in flight, in the old text, pronounced, 'Lilan,' the living embodiment of truth. The other figure is a pair of arms bearing a vessel, or a woman with a basket. It's called 'Dra,' or bringer... There's more. There's something growing around us. Something hidden…"

"Well, whatever it is, it will have to wait, because this session is over," McCoy announced. He watched the countdown reach zero. Cerebro shut down. "You can remove the headset…" Beast turned back towards Charles.

Xavier's eyes were darting rapidly from side to side, tracing things unseen.

"Charles! Can you hear me?" Beast yelled.

Professor X did not respond.


	17. Dreams

**Chapter 16 – Dreams**

Her first week on campus was finally over. For the past five nights she hadn't gone to bed so much as collapsed from exhaustion. Sitting alone in her room on the top floor of the high-rise residence hall on Morningside Drive, Jean studied her schedule. She added up all the credits she was taking for the semester. They totaled twenty-six.

She recalled going over her selections with Xavier two weeks earlier in his office at the Institute. She'd felt close to him that morning. His enthusiasm for all the courses she was considering seemed genuine. It convinced her he understood her need to explore the world beyond the grounds of the Institute. While reading the descriptions aloud, his voice sounded so animated, Jean wondered if he was more excited about the classes than she was. After he delivered the last line of the final entry in the catalog, a paragraph promoting a history of cosmology course, a rare silence engulfed them. Their eyes rested on each other. He laughed and opened his consciousness to hers.

His thoughts materialized in her mind, forming a bright day in September that had dawned thirty-four years earlier. He was sixteen and it was his first day at college. The sight of the centuries old, Georgian facade of Hollis Hall brought his anxious gait to a halt. Studying the half-sized windows stamped symmetrically across the top story, he searched for his future self in one of the rooms. Savoring the fragrance of the morning air, he tasted freedom.

He was now free from the constant reminders of his stepfather's brutality and his mother's premature death. He would no longer suffer his stepbrother's harassment. The concept of a new life took shape within his imagination. Liberated from the shackles of his past, he would dedicate himself entirely to the pursuit of knowledge.

_I too wish to be free, Professor._

_Free from what, Jean?_

_You._

The fragile fabric of his nostalgic projection dissolved. Xavier became disoriented. He was unsure whether their minds were still linked. Had she severed their psychic connection? Gradually Jean came back into focus. She was seated across from him, in his office, just as before…

But something was strange. She smiled at him slyly. Then she rose off her chair and flew towards him. Sunshine pouring into the room through the window by his desk bathed her hovering body in brilliance; the golden light danced in her eyes and set the floating mass of her red hair aflame. Her locks swept the sides of his face. Curling her arms around his head, she pressed her lips against his.

Charles struggled to regain control of his thoughts. The fantasy scene disappeared. He had taken Jean straight into the part of himself he'd always tried hardest to conceal. But she had wanted to go there. He suddenly found the climate-controlled environment of his office uncomfortably warm. He started to sweat.

_Jean, I'm sorry. Please forget what you saw. I assure you, I will never let my inappropriate emotions dictate my behavior. Unfortunately, I'm only human. And you saw my dark side – the part of myself ruled by lust and motivated by selfishness. We all have one. With the others I can hide my private feelings. But not with you, not anymore…_

Grey remained in a sitting position. She appeared stiff and angry; her hair streamed upwards as she levitated half a foot above her seat. Charles continued.

_I know there are many reasons why you want to leave the Institute. But beware. You are very beautiful. The people in the city will desire you and fear you, in more ways than you can conceive of. You must prepare yourself._

_By learning to shut everyone else out?_

_Yes. Stay out of other peoples' heads, especially your professors'._

Jean thought of Bayville High. Though she'd always found schoolwork easy, she had explored the minds of her more interesting teachers – taking in their knowledge of subjects far beyond those they chose to disclose to the class.

_Jean, do you remember our 'telepath's code of ethics'?_

_The same ethics you used to rack up all those advanced degrees?_

_You are correct to rebuke me. I abused my abilities. I simply absorbed years of hard work from the heads of my mentors. Yet eventually, I didn't enjoy it anymore. I had to know if I could actually learn, Jean. Could I apprehend knowledge? Take hold of it, intellectually? It was different from scanning the brains of my instructors. I felt unknown parts of my cerebral cortex switch on. It was like learning a new language. I found myself thinking in a whole new way._

_If I have to stay out of their heads, I shouldn't try for the double major. It'll be too much._

_Not for you. You're hungry to understand the universe and the creatures within it. This is your chance, Jean. When I was linked with Apocalypse, I glimpsed the infinite for a split-second. I saw some things that are to come. We will face a great danger soon and your time at the University may be short. Make the most of it._

Back in her dorm room, Jean spent the rest of the night reducing the mountain of work that was due Monday. At around one a.m., feeling totally worn-out, she decided it was time to sleep. She took off the weighted vest for the first time since her morning shower and laid it on the bed. After washing up and changing into a cotton camisole and shorts, she put it back on and got under the covers. She telekinetically flipped off the light switch and lay in the darkness.

Slumber eluded her. She started thinking about her schedule again and that day in Xavier's office. Maybe he hadn't been truly transparent with her. The words 'make the most of it' kept coming back to her. And if great danger was on the way, why had he advised her to take so many classes? The reason became instantly clear. If she were preoccupied with the infinite problems of science, she wouldn't wonder about her own potential. The Professor was still afraid she would lose control.

She had to admit her recollections of her actions during and directly after the final battle with Apocalypse were spotty at best. She remembered raising Professor X's fallen body from the sands of Egypt. Charles was too weak to vocalize, but he kept trying to communicate telepathically. She couldn't make out what he was saying; the message sounded garbled and faint, like a transmission from somewhere far away. The next thing she knew she was way up in the atmosphere, far higher than she had ever flown, while miles below an unconscious man with wings was about to smash into the ground.

The image of Warren Worthington falling played over and over in her mind. Charles didn't want her to think about Warren. He had never said anything to her directly, that wasn't Xavier's style, but she sensed his disapproval anytime Angel was mentioned. Jean hadn't thought about Warren for days. Right now it felt wonderful. She could feel the wind from his wings against her skin. Three hours after midnight she drifted into unconsciousness.

She dreamt she walked into Professor Steiner's physics seminar. But the space was different – it now resembled the Danger Room with sloping adamantium walls over a hundred feet high. Steiner was unhappy she'd arrived late. He looked different; his eyes were dark like Xavier's. The students had changed as well. Rogue and Kurt were there, among a group she only partially recognized. An archly stylish girl she didn't know with platinum blond hair tracked her every motion.

"So, you're Jean Grey," she purred.

Jean quickly sat down at an old-fashioned wooden desk. Looking out the windows that ran along the north wall she didn't see the Gothic tower of Teachers College that should have been there. Instead she saw clouds. Somehow the building had significantly increased in altitude. Her vest started to pull her down and the thin air caused her to become short of breath.

In seconds she felt like she was wearing a plastic bag over her head. She fell out of her chair and clutched at her throat, gasping. There wasn't any oxygen left in the room. If she could just get out, she'd be able to breathe.

She shot psionic force fields at the row of windows. The panes burst outwards, shattering into a million tiny shards. Jean tried to get up to follow the glints of sparkling glass outside. But she couldn't move. The vest was too heavy. Then she noticed her surroundings had transformed. She was lying in one of the flowerbeds next to the Gazebo.

The petals on the blooms were odd. Examining them closely, she saw the flowers were made of wax. She touched one and watched it burn up instantly. Her flesh was on fire. Everything began melting – the flowers and the grass merged into a pool of wax. The vest collapsed into a spreading mass of molten adamantium. It sealed her to the ground. Suddenly Warren appeared, spiraling above. She called to him telepathically.

_Warren, stay away, you'll burn…_

But he continued his corkscrew descent. Closing in, he spread out his wings. The force of his approach created a blast of arctic wind. He cooled her fire, blowing out the flames of thousands of melting candles. He grabbed the front of her vest and cracked it open. It was made of wax not metal. The material clinging to her body crumbled away in his grasp. He gathered her into his arms. With a huge gust he pulled in his wings, lifting the two of them high into the air.

Jean heard an alert ringing through the clouds. It came from the Institute on a telepathic frequency. The summons was one she knew well: assume active duty; prepare for immediate departure.

She resisted the call. She didn't want to break out of Warren's embrace. For the first time in months she was experiencing pleasure. Just a few more minutes… Warren was slowly moving his hand down her neck…


	18. The Waterfront

**Chapter 17 – The Waterfront**

Tony Mazzotti was a good friend of Logan's. In fact, Wolverine didn't fully appreciate Tony's loyalty and discretion. Mazzotti had a near perfect memory. He could remember the face of every customer he'd ever served and even the mugs of guys who'd simply staggered in to pass out on the floor. He often wondered if he was a mutant, like Wolverine and the other X-Men who'd recently become the targets of every reporter in town.

Tony ran a bar called Sal's, which was located on the Brooklyn waterfront, less than fifty feet from New York Harbor. Back when his father, Salvatore Mazzotti, ran things, they served only longshoremen: big guys who got hammered every night and then started their shifts at dawn with a beer and a shot. Now the docks were automated and there were far fewer jobs. Tony unlocked the doors at noon for the regulars – lifetime alcoholics who constituted the bedrock of his business; at five, he watched construction workers fill the place; then he stayed open until four a.m. for the bikers, retail workers, and the occasional solitary nighthawk, like Logan.

Wolverine rarely showed up before two in the morning. By that hour, the crowd was pretty thin. He haunted the pool table in the back, where he played billiards alone. If a group of dim thugs or some sloshed kids approached him for a game, a low snarl would rumble behind his teeth while his eyes flashed with untamed aggression. The potential opponents would usually retreat; often, they fled.

One night, a young man wearing an expensive sweater asked Mazzotti about the dark, lone figure. The bartender bet the kid was some flavor of journalist. Tony said he had no idea who the guy was, but the man didn't like people coming in with a lot of questions. He then pointed to the plate glass window in the front of the bar and described how his insurance rates would be affected if the reporter's body were propelled through it. Since the last person to annoy the solitary pool player caused his business considerable expense, he personally advised the investigator to leave the premises as quickly as possible. A deep, grinding growl from the rear room underscored Mazzotti's words. The journalist took off, never to return.

Tony actually did know who Logan was. He was Wolverine, one of Charles Xavier's notorious X-Men. He was also the same guy who should have died right there, on the floor of the joint, fifty years earlier. Thirteen-year-old Tony was helping out his father after school that day.

He brought a case of Rheingold in from the back. The place was nearly vacant. The middle of the afternoon was the low point between shifts. Aside from his father on his stool behind the register, there was only a single customer drinking a beer. The man had black hair that tufted out, slightly, on the sides. The kid also noticed bulges in the material of man's thin jacket along his upper arms. He must be really muscular, Tony thought. But he didn't seem puffed up, like a wrestler or a few of the local tough guys. The teenager figured the man probably spent all his time lifting I-beams.

Tony removed his gaze from the stranger and crouched behind the bar to load the bottles into the refrigerator. Hearing the tap of quality soles on the oak floorboards, he popped up to witness two of Joe Blank's boys enter. He immediately ducked back down and listened.

"Hey, we've been looking for you. A friend of ours got hurt down at the docks. You know about that?" Vinnie Grasso called to the lone drinker.

There was no response.

"Didn't you hear? We got some questions," came Johnny Z.'s voice.

Young Tony heard the hum of a Cadillac engine outside. He glanced up at the mirror behind the bar. Scanning the reflection of the street outside, he saw Dino Damiano waiting at the wheel of his long, red, shiny Eldorado convertible. Tony had recently begun studying his father's patrons. Damiano set the style for them all, with his tailored suits and permanently affixed dark glasses.

Sal Mazzotti had only a moment to communicate with his son, "Don't move. Don't say anything, keep your head down."

"Who the hell are you?" Vinnie asked the dark-haired man.

But the unfamiliar customer didn't even turn around. Johnny picked up one of the heavy wooden barstools. Just as he slammed it towards the back of the loner's head, Tony squinched his eyes shut.

The boy heard the piece of furniture smacking the surface of the bar and opened his eyes to watch it splinter into fragments. Then he saw Johnny's face, leaking blood, crashing into the wall. Grasso yelped as he was thrown to the floor. Dino entered. He held out his Colt .45 and fired it twice. Tony heard a thud.

Another car pulled up behind Damiano's Cadillac. Three more men ran in. Two of them dragged Johnny Z. outside while the third one helped Grasso to his feet.

"Sal, time to call Mike," Dino instructed Tony's father.

Tony knew 'Mike' meant his uncle, Officer Michael Mazzotti of the 76th precinct.

"What am I supposed to say?" Sal asked.

"Don't say nothing. He knows what to do. I'll tell the guys in the yard you're closed. Who's that kid back there? Your boy?"

The barkeep and his son remained physically frozen until they heard the two cars drive away. Sal ran to the front, locked the door and drew down the window shade. Tony looked at the smoking bullet holes cut into the wall. Then he went over to examine the body of the strange man. A pool of blood spread out from his chest.

Salvatore rushed back to the telephone by the register and dialed the number for the precinct.

"Tony! Get back here!" he ordered. "Hey Frank, get me Mike. It's Sal."

The thirteen-year-old was afraid to do it, but he had to see the guy's face. He'd never seen the look on a dead person. The man's eyes were closed but he didn't appear to be sleeping, he was too still.

Tony suddenly jumped. "Pa!" he screamed.

"Shut-up, kid! Get over here, now!" Sal was beet red.

"But, Pop, he's not dead anymore…"

"Mike, I gotta call you back." Sal hung up the phone as the stranger struggled to stand.

Salvatore shepherded the man into the washroom. The elder Mazzotti emerged with the blood-drenched remains of a jacket. Tony grabbed one of his father's old shirts off the coat rack in the storeroom and brought it to the stranger. The man pulled it on and thanked the boy and his dad. Then he left through the back door.

Ten years later, Tony lifted his head from pouring a scotch one night and recognized the man Dino Damiano shot. He was wearing the fatigues of a marine and looked like he'd just walked out of a South East Asian jungle. Another soldier, who had an eye patch, was with him.

"Want a beer, Logan?" the guy with the patch asked.

"Sure, Nick, since you're buying."

Mazzotti took note of the name, "Logan," while he served up two beers. The two men took their drinks back to the old storeroom area Tony had finally convinced his dad to turn into a pool parlor. Logan never gave Tony any indication he remembered him, or the incident that had occurred a decade before.

The barman didn't see the guy again for at least twenty years. He came in alone, an hour after midnight. Tony had to prevent himself from staring when Logan approached the bar. The man had changed – there was a new hardness to his physique and the creases in his brow were deeper – but he seemed barely four or five years older. Perhaps his unbelievable capacity to survive two gunshots through the chest also retarded the effects of aging.

Logan's visits were sporadic after that. Just when Tony felt certain the man would never walk in again, he'd detect the singular roar of a custom-made Harley-Davidson motorcycle coming down the block. The black-haired, muscled stranger would emerge from the misty darkness of the vacant docks.

During the past five months the news channels had fomented a general fear of mutants, humans who'd somehow evolved far more rapidly than the rest of the population. These altered persons had developed weird physical features and unexplainable abilities. The most dangerous one of them all was a creature the press described as half man, half predatory carnivore. Code-named Wolverine, he had razor-like, adamantium claws that could tear an average citizen to shreds with a single scratch.

After witnessing countless video clips and images of the fearsome Wolverine every time he turned on the television or looked at a newspaper, the barkeep realized he knew the mutant warrior's identity. Wolverine was the dark-haired loner called Logan. According to the media, he was a member of a revolutionary mutant attack force called the X-Men. This militant organization was widely considered hostile to the government of the United States.

Mazzotti turned around and observed his infamous customer quietly pursuing a solitary pool game. The guy was okay, as far as he was concerned. Tony didn't believe everything he heard. The man always paid his tab, kept to himself, and never initiated a fight. Tony was proud to provide a momentary haven for the mysterious Wolverine.

And lately things had been quiet; no one else had made any inquires since the young investigator ran out of the place in a panic. Tonight Logan had enjoyed peaceful anonymity for several hours.

Tony felt it was getting late. The hands on his watch indicated forty minutes past three in the morning. He announced last call.

"I'll have one more," Logan put a bill on the bar.

"It's all right. This one's on me." Mazzotti pushed away the money and placed a glass under the tap.

Wolverine abruptly broke eye contact and raised his hand to his right ear. He must have heard something, the bartender guessed, maybe a signal normal people couldn't perceive.

"Another time. I gotta go."

A millisecond later, as it seemed to Mazzotti, Logan was speeding away from the curb on his Harley.


	19. Velocity

**Chapter 18 – Velocity**

Logan pulled on his helmet and activated the communicator embedded within. He had received an alarm back at Sal's. The helmet emitted a high frequency signal that only mutants with extreme auditory perception akin to his own could hear; it alerted him that an emergency situation had developed.

He called in while his motorcycle roared down the empty cobblestone streets of South Brooklyn.

McCoy answered, "Logan. You've got to go get Jean. We need her up here immediately."

"Charles said she was off the team. What's going on, Hank?" Wolverine turned onto the Brooklyn Bridge and crossed the East River at eighty miles an hour, speeding around streams of delivery trucks.

"The Professor is presently out of commission. In fact, he's the problem. Charles is caught in some sort of trance. He's been unresponsive for nearly an hour. We were trying out a new program on Cerebro. I thought I'd shut it down, but afterwards he was still connected somehow..."

"Whose idea was it to run a new program on Cerebro at three o'clock in the morning?"

"Whose do you think, Logan? He was obsessed. I tried to stop him… I don't know what's going on now. It could be a telepathic intruder… I can't just yank off the interface – he'll have a stroke. Plus his heart rate is increasing; we've been checking it for the past half-hour. I'm worried he'll suffer a coronary event if we don't separate him soon. Ororo agrees with me. Only Jean can pull him out of this."

"All right. I'll go… Guess you don't want to land the Blackbird on her roof this time of night. Where is she?"

"Hamilton Residence Hall, Morningside just past 116th Street. She's on the top floor."

"Can't she meet me on the street? Do I have to bust into her dormitory?"

"I sent her a psionic alert. But she hasn't responded. Get her here any way you can. Logan, it's Charles, it's urgent."

"See you in thirty minutes. Tell Storm she better thank me this time."

Logan wove his bike in between thinly dispersed taxis and private cars as he raced up FDR Drive. The dense light patterns created by the layered backgrounds of Roosevelt Island, Brooklyn and Queens across the water formed a glittering blur in his peripheral vision.

The black Harley screeched as it zoomed west on 96th Street, missing a Daily News truck by mere inches at First Avenue. Logan tore through Central Park and came to a smoking halt midway between 116th and 118th Streets on Morningside Drive. Where was she? She should be there, ready to go, waiting for him. She was a goddamned psychic, wasn't she?

The final confrontation with Apocalypse had changed her. Of all Xavier's students, Jean had been the most dependable. She often reported first for duty, especially if the Professor was endangered.

That afternoon at the mansion, two months ago, as the X-Men returned from Apocalypse's scattered battlefields, Logan witnessed her transformation into something that was no longer human – a bird made of fire. How could he expect her to act like the Jean Grey he used to know? That person might no longer exist.

Logan parked his bike and approached the thirty-story building. From twenty yards away, he could tell the security situation was problematic. It was almost four a.m. and Wolverine realized he was not the most presentable visitor.

Scouring the building's façade, he noticed an open window four stories up. He cursed Hank, Charles, and Jean in his head while he scaled the southeast corner. Luckily the aperture led to a hallway on the fourth floor instead of some anxious co-ed's bedroom. The guard, if awake, would likely be watching the camera feed from the elevator, he reasoned. So Wolverine took the stairs.

After climbing twenty-six stories, he was far from exhausted, but he had broken a sweat. He was breathing quickly when he came to her door. It was locked. What was this girl doing? Well, he did possess a universal key; he extended the point of one of his adamantium claws into the keyhole and turned the knob.

It was cold in her room. The window opposite her bed was open and there was a breeze inside. Logan had never let himself inhale Jean's fragrance too deeply. She had the sweetest, most intoxicating smell. At this moment, her scent surrounded him. He knew he was going to dream about her, if he ever let himself fall asleep. Right now, he had to wake her up.

He walked over to her bed. She slept, floating above, inches from the ceiling. The weighted vest lay discarded among the rumpled covers her rising form must have thrown aside. Logan, losing control of his sight, found himself gazing up at her lithe body clothed in nothing more than a tight pair of athletic shorts and a tank top.

Was she caught in a dream? Maybe she and Charles were both the victims of a psychic assault. But Jean seemed to be enjoying it. Her body twisted slowly as her arms curled around empty space, caressing the air. It looked like she was making love with a phantom.

Logan stared, spellbound. So much power inside her… She had never asked for it; it just happened. And she was only a kid. She had no idea what was going on.

Her sleeping form revolved, bringing her face into view. Suddenly, a blazing flash blinded Wolverine. He lifted his arm to block the light and squinted hard. Her eyes were open, burning with the brilliance of the firebird; Jean Grey was not happy to see him.

_Logan._

Her deafening voice rang in his brain. Logan's Weapon X conditioning kicked in, enabling him to regain his bearings.

"They need you upstate, Red. Get your clothes on. We've gotta leave now..."

_So you broke into my room?_

"Jean, dial it down… Use your mouth to talk to me. Afraid to wake the neighbors?"

She lowered herself beside him.

"Tell me what's going on." The flames within her irises cooled. He could look at her again.

"Charles needs you. It's an emergency."

Logan heard closet doors behind him part. An outfit whizzed by and dropped into her arms.

"I'll get dressed." Jean disappeared into the bathroom.

In seconds she returned.

"Ready for departure," she announced.

She was wearing close cut black leather pants. Had he seen her in those before?

"Don't forget this," he said, handing her the adamantium-laced jacket. After she put it on, he asked, "Can you still get us down to the street wearing that thing?"

"I don't know. Let's find out." She tossed him a wicked smile.

They dove head first, thirty stories down. Wolverine sensed his earthbound velocity accelerating. Was she holding him up at all? He should have just jumped out the window on his own. The pressure against his face as they fell towards Earth at over a hundred feet per second prevented him from forming words, but he wanted to ask if she was trying to kill him. Then they stopped, less than two meters from the ground. Jean rotated their bodies and they landed on the concrete sidewalk, next to the Harley.

"You said we were in a hurry," she smiled again.

"Put this on." Wolverine passed her his spare helmet.

"I don't need it."

"Just wear it. And hold onto me. We're gonna go fast."

There were few cars on the streets of Upper Manhattan and the number dwindled further once they reached the Henry Hudson Parkway. Logan allowed himself great freedom on the road; he knew if they crashed, his adamantium skeleton and her telekinetic force fields would prevent any major injuries. By the time they merged onto the Saw Mill Expressway, the Harley was clocking over a hundred and fifty miles an hour.

Since the state police cruisers topped out at 130 mph, Wolverine figured there was little chance any authority would get close enough to identify them let alone pull them over. But someone must have noticed them along the way. A mile ahead of their exit, a barricade of seven Crown Victoria Interceptors, blue and red signals whirling, became visible.

_You gonna help me out here, Jean?_

Logan figured the telepath behind him would get the message more quickly if he used his head.

_I thought you only spoke with your mouth, Logan… But I 'spose I could try._

Wolverine watched the cops break out of their cars and run when they realized the oncoming motorcycle was not slowing down.

"Come on, Jean!" he yelled into his helmet.

Was she waiting 'til the last second? Or did she want to smash into several tons of steel at 160 mph?


	20. Cerebro

**Chapter 19 – Cerebro**

He held up his arms to block his face. His muscles tightened, bracing for impact.

_Goddamn you, Jean!_

The instant his brain formed the words, the police cruisers parted before them. The Harley continued its course without decelerating. Logan realized he was no longer the one steering; she was.

_Don't worry. They won't remember anything._

Her voice chiming in his mind sounded almost playful. Was this a game to her? The motorcycle suddenly spun around and lurched into the air. Wolverine hugged the handlebars to prevent himself from being hurled onto the asphalt of the Cross Westchester Expressway. They soared over the trees lining the freeway and touched down on Route 22 North.

"They won't remember, Jean. I will."

The air thickened. Logan recognized the aroma of ozone created by positive charged ions in the atmosphere. Combined with smoke and citrus, the smell indicated a specific phenomenon. It was Ororo, tracking them from above. As the bike sailed up the drive to the Institute, Wolverine watched the Windrider alight on the steps of the mansion. Storm's long white hair, drawn into hundreds of shining braids, flowed with the course of the air currents.

"Come quickly. He's worse," she told them while they hurried indoors.

Ororo led the way to the platform transport that would take them ninety meters below ground to Subterranean Level 2.

"How bad, 'Ro?" Logan asked, entering the large enclosed chamber.

"His pulse was 115 bpm when I left and he started having trouble breathing," Storm responded. "Hank gave him a M40 injection but it made no difference. We can't take a chance with anything else. If he's rendered unconscious…"

"He could end up in a psychically induced coma," Jean broke in.

She sounded fragile. Wolverine glanced at Grey. He was struck by the change in her expression; she seemed scared. Where was the woman who casually threw him off a thirty-story building?

Jean closed her eyes, bit down on her lower lip and let the sensation of the rapid downward acceleration lift her into air. "I can't feel him at all. Something or someone is blocking me, or he's gone…" Her speech wavered.

A self-generated updraft carried Ororo aloft until she hovered alongside Jean. "Hang on to me," she offered, extending a comforting arm around the young redhead's shoulders.

The platform's descent slowed as it neared Level 2. Storm guided Jean back down to the floor. The doors parted. Scott Summers was waiting for them. "Jean, are you okay?" he asked the unsteady figure Ororo escorted into the passageway.

Grey opened her eyes, "I'll be all right."

Jean, Storm, and Logan followed Scott into the antechamber. Once the electronic eye validated their identities by scanning their thought patterns, the three-foot deep adamantium vault opened. Dr. McCoy sat next to Professor Xavier in the center of the cavernous spherical space that housed the Cerebro supercomputer. Hank was typing furiously on his keypad while scrutinizing characters on one of the displays.

"We were running a program compiled from the Eye of Ages codex. Charles mentioned two symbols – a crane and a vessel of some kind before I lost him. I'm trying to decipher something more that might help us." The large, lumbering Beast appeared greatly distressed.

Jean approached the Professor. The sight of him wearing the helmet interface without any command of his situation disturbed her. Charles Xavier telepathically directing Cerebro's vast operations formed the symbol of power and control she cherished the most. Here he was, strapped to his chair. His eyes shifted from side to side and every few seconds he shook with spastic muscle contractions. She called to him.

_Professor, can you hear me?_

She strained to detect a reply. There was too much noise in her head. She could no longer tune out the thoughts of the others. The more she tried, the louder their voices grew. She'd have to connect to Cerebro, if only to cut through the static, to reach the Professor.

A high-pitched tone bleated from the medical monitor beside Charles' wheelchair. It alerted everyone that his oxygenation level had dropped to seventy percent.

"Jean, are you getting anything?" Logan asked.

"No. Nothing," she answered, studying Xavier's moving pupils. "I must access Cerebro immediately."

McCoy abruptly turned from the codex on the screen, "I have the remote interface."

"Wait, Jean, you can't do this… We don't know what'll happen." A red streak surged behind Scott's ruby quartz glasses as he voiced the concern felt by everyone in the room.

Jean had used the remote Cerebro unit to even her chances against Xavier when he was under Apocalypse's control. The psionic technology had enabled her to remove the limits the Professor had placed on her abilities over the years. Burning at the peak of her powers, she was transformed. Would the fire-born creature she became before be released again?

Jean addressed Summers' scarlet lenses, "It's okay, Scott. I believe Hank has a safety measure."

McCoy produced a circular metal object, "You knew about this…"

"I know about it now." Jean telekinetically lifted the circlet out of Hank's grasp and arranged it on her head. It clicked into position, settling on her wavy hair, just above the occipital bone on the back of her skull.

"What is it?" asked Wolverine. He noticed a series of luminous pinpoints striping the middle of the crown.

"It's a neural disruptor," McCoy responded, while placing the Cerebro interface on top of the circlet.

"No way, Hank. I won't let you fry her brain!" Cyclops was ready for a fight.

"It's only a precaution," Jean explained, "and it's not your decision."

Scott remained adamant, "There has to be something else we can do!"

"Maybe we should hold off. We could try to contact Moira again…" Ororo proposed.

Xavier's heart rate had rapidly increased to 150 bpm. The incessant beeping from the cardio reader multiplied.

"There's no more time. All of you have to go. I can't hear him with everyone here." Jean looked at each of them closely, "and take this," she requested, raising her arms. The weighted vest rose from her shoulders and flew into Logan's hands. "I can't do it with that on."

"I'm not going to leave you alone in here." Summers wasn't moving.

"I'll maintain contact. I'll tell you everything that's happening."

"We need to monitor your temperature and heart rate," Hank handed her a sensor. Grey unbuttoned her blouse and applied the small circular mechanism to the skin over her heart.

"Jean, this is too big a risk! You know what the Professor said. He didn't want you anywhere near Cerebro!" Cyclops persisted.

"The Professor is lost to us forever if I don't do this." Jean refastened her shirt.

Hank left, followed by Ororo.

"Scott, please go," Grey suggested, softly.

"I'd listen to her, Slim. She'll knock you cold if she has to," Logan advised, stretching his arms wide to shepherd Cyclops into the antechamber.

"Things go wrong for one second, I'm coming in." Summers exited the room.

Wolverine was the last to leave, "We'll be right outside, Red."

Jean turned away from him and stared at Xavier. Logan heard her voice in his head.

_Secure the vault._

* * *

Dr. McCoy activated the computer display on the wall of the small antechamber. He launched the communication system and set the screen to monitor vital signs for Charles and Jean. Then he joined the others, who were observing the two telepaths through the narrow window of one meter thick, adamantium threaded glass next to the vault.

"I'm initializing," Grey reported.

When she heard the hydraulic joints contract, sealing the portal, Jean could finally concentrate. The psyches of her fellow X-Men had been filled to overflowing. Hank was weighted with guilt; Ororo trembled with anxiety over Charles' condition; Scott boiled with jealousy; and Logan smoldered with desire. It was Wolverine's thoughts she'd found the most distracting – he wanted to breathe in her scent and run his fingers along her spine…

Secluded with Charles inside Cerebro's walls, Jean was able to hone her telepathy. Soon she felt the interface's circuitry fuse with her synapses. She drifted towards Xavier.

_Where are you, Professor?_

There was no response, only darkness. She tried again.

_I know you're here… Why are you hiding from me?_

"What do you see?" Hank transmitted.

"It's all hidden… But I think I can break through."

"Jean, what's going on? Your temperature's rising," came Scott's voice through the miniature speakers embedded in her headset.

Grey began to glow, "I'm fine. Just illuminating things."

She dissolved the woolen mist obscuring her psychic sight until nothing was left but a thin membrane shrouding Charles' consciousness. Focusing her psychokinetic energy like a laser, she pierced the meniscus separating their minds. A blinding light flooded her vision.

_Jean?_

It was Charles. But he sounded faint and she couldn't see him. She couldn't see anything aside from the white light.

_Professor?_

The brilliance dispersed, spinning into countless dazzling spheres. They were stars. She was moving through space. The pulsating kaleidoscopic orbs seemed to be singing, their interlacing frequencies wove a celestial symphony. Xavier's voice returned.

_What are you doing here?_

_I came to bring you back. Why can't I see you?_

_I'm here._

Jean looked to her right. The Professor appeared, floating beside her. She was surprised to find his astral avatar did not resemble his Earthly self. In this reality Xavier was a strong, young man.

_What is this? Where are we?_

_We are in the mind of another. Someone who has seen things we can't imagine._

_Whose mind? _

They soared towards twin co-orbital suns. Charles continued.

_Her name is Lilan-dra, bringer of truth. She's the author of the codex we recorded from the Eye of Ages. Her home is in this system, a planet named Shi'ar. Shi' means great bird or falcon… The people of the falcon?_

_Whoever this Lilandra is or was, her mind has cut you off from the real world. Your body is failing. We must leave now. This journey is over._

_I can't leave yet. Something is about to happen. I think we're about to witness their creation story, the birth of their God. These two stars, one is Shi'mor and the other they call M'Kraan…_

Jean felt her face grow hot. The closer of the two suns was drawing her in, pulling her away from Xavier. The star's gravity had no effect on the Professor, leaving him anchored in space. She tried to grab his arm but she was already too far away. He didn't seem to be aware of her absence; he just kept looking straight ahead. Had she become invisible? Speeding towards the stellar inferno, Grey could barely catch his thoughts.

_Shi'mor… Mor is fire, the falcon of fire, the Phoenix…_

As she plummeted into the churning, flaming mass, she heard a sound coming from the heart of the star. It grew louder, causing her bones to reverberate. She recognized the cry of a bird of prey. It was alive. Cresting arcs of fire formed burning wings and enveloped Jean Grey.

Back in the antechamber, the numbers on the computer display spiked.

"Her temperature's over a hundred and six degrees Fahrenheit, Charles is at 105. The air in there is 120, 122…" Dr. McCoy gasped.

"Jean!" Scott shouted at the levitating girl on the opposite side of the window.

Her skin took fire; her brilliance exploded. Logan shielded his eyes, as did Hank; even Ororo had to, everyone except Scott Summers, who could stare into the core of the Sun.


	21. Candy Southern

**Chapter 20 – Candy Southern**

The back of his head smacked down on his pillow, waking him up with a thud. He touched his nose and felt a scrape. He must have grazed the ceiling in his sleep.

He had been dreaming. Turning his head in the direction of the faint whine of the city news he left babbling on the clock radio beside his bed, he focused on glowing green numbers; they read 4:05 a.m.. Was Jean in one of the University's uptown residences right now?

She had pulled him into her dream… He could still feel her energy coursing through his nerves, her arms around his neck, and her lips on his mouth. Why had it ended so abruptly? Did something or someone wake her up? Had an unseen presence been watching them?

Warren pressed one of the buttons on the wall above his nightstand. The space slowly brightened. Looking around he saw his sheets in a heap on the other side of the room. He supposed his wings had tossed them away while he slept. The curtains covering the windows on the left side of the chamber retracted revealing the dimmed, diffuse lights of the city outside. The Empire State Building, The Chrysler, and the other great skyscrapers had switched off their displays leaving a low orange luminance to permeate the thin fog lying over Midtown Manhattan.

He would find Jean tonight. Though he didn't know exactly where she was, there was a possibility she might sense him if he were physically near.

A recent arrival from his personal tailors, Flitcroft & Thwaite, lay within his wardrobe – a flight suit made from light absorbing material Worthington Labs had developed for the U.S. Military. His white wings would still be visible, but his body would be significantly harder to see.

A stray sentence from the radio filtered through to his consciousness while he pulled on his new costume.

"Witnesses are reporting a crane collapse at 96th Street and 1st Avenue…"

He walked back to his bed and increased the volume.

"Emergency vehicles are just arriving on the scene. Authorities have told us a delivery truck trying to avoid a speeding motorcycle coming off FDR Drive, slammed into the base of a construction crane causing severe damage to the recently completed seventy-story Richard Meier building. Most of the residents are being evacuated, but rescuers are unable to reach the two penthouse apartments…"

He flew into his office. Flitcroft & Thwaite had also provided the services of a highly skilled young fabricator and technologist named Varun Minar. Minar had produced a slender wristband with controls for the features Warren was developing for the Worthington Tower. A simple movement of the wrist activated the grand skylight bearing the lustrous red-haired seraph. The multicolored window slid open as the winged man rose into the air. He passed through the circular portal and entered the huge zeppelin hanger above. With another command a section of the glass rooftop overhead rolled back, allowing the Angel to ascend into the pre-dawn sky.

For a moment he hesitated. Where should he go? He might be the only hope for the victims of the crane collapse. If they couldn't get onto the roof, a helicopter rescue would be impossible. But maybe Jean needed him.

He soared past 96th Street. Why did he care what happened to some stranded strangers? Was it solely his job to rescue every high-rise resident of New York City every time there was a fire or a construction accident?

Soon he was looking down at 116th Street and Amsterdam Avenue. The campus of the University was deserted. Warren surveyed the surrounding dormitories. Hamilton Residence Hall on Morningside Drive was the tallest at thirty stories high. He decided to begin his search there.

He scanned the building. The lights were on in only a handful of units. And he discounted those because they were all on lower levels; Jean would never live so close to the ground. His eyes ran back up the structure until they were halted by an open window on the top floor.

He folded in his wings and dropped fifty feet. Drifting a foot beyond the sill, he peered inside. It was dark, but using his exceptional vision he could clearly make out two pictures sitting on the desk. Jean Grey smiled at him from both frames. In one she was leaning against an auburn-haired, middle-aged woman he didn't know – probably her mother, he guessed. In the other she was standing next to Storm before the main entrance to the Institute.

Warren had found her room, yet she wasn't there. The covers on her bed were disturbed and the closet door was ajar. Had she left in a hurry?

Angel directed his gaze north, following the path of Morningside Drive. A motorcycle with two passengers zoomed along the curve of West 122nd Street and sped onto Amsterdam. Long red tendrils streamed out of the helmet of the person in back. He identified Jean immediately. But he flinched when he noticed her arms tightly encircling the torso of the muscular figure in front. The bulky outline of the fore rider's shoulders and the sleek lines of the vintage Harley Davidson told Warren who it was – Logan.

They must be on a mission. But Jean was no longer one of the X-Men. There could be an emergency, one that required Jean's unique abilities. Should he follow them? His distance from the speeding motorcycle was growing by the second. Watching the bike shoot onto the West Side Highway, Warren estimated their speed to be a hundred miles per hour or faster. They were heading in the direction of the Institute. He knew he was not welcome there.

_Jean…_

Was she too far away to hear his thoughts? More likely, she was preoccupied with the urgent situation that had called her out of bed. He turned back. Angering or just annoying Logan (and possibly Jean as well) wasn't something he wanted to do.

The mere idea of facing a ticked off Wolverine made Warren shudder. Crossing Scott Summers was one thing. He at least had a chance of out-maneuvering laser boy's blasts. The feral Canadian was an entirely different animal. Logan always caught his prey. Warren imagined his back breaking against an adamantium kneecap and then hearing the "snikt" sound those claws made when they snapped out; he pictured his feathers being shredded…

Flying downtown he felt like a fool. What was he doing peeping into a girl's dorm room at four in the morning? Maybe they hadn't shared the dream. The whole thing could easily exist wholly in his head. It might simply be a coincidence that he woke up close to the time she left the residence hall.

The Worthington Tower was within sight as 96th Street and Fifth passed below. He remembered the crane collapse. He had to hurry east to First Avenue. He hoped he wouldn't get there too late. He could still be somebody's hero tonight.

Warren sensed the sweep of helicopter searchlights across his wings. The fire department and the media were circling the area of the disaster from the air. He saw three people huddling in the mid-section of a hallway on the top floor of the damaged structure: a young woman with dark hair wearing a blue evening gown, a trembling guy in a suit, and an elderly man in a silk dressing robe. The force of the crane's impact had riven the apartments with multiple fissures. On either side of the hall were treacherous multi-story chasms. Angel rushed towards them.

He was thirty feet away when his heart stopped; he recognized two of the three. The name of the quivering man was Josh Gould. The girl was Warren's first crush, Candy Southern. Over five years had gone by since he last saw them.

* * *

Candy's sleeping face resting against the leather skinned rear seats of her BMW X5 with her body wrapped in his precious, hated, camel hair overcoat, was one of the most resonant images in the final sequence of his recollections of the Lindsley Academy in upstate New York. He recalled his fright when she rolled over. He was standing by the car, in the small gravel clearing off Route 9L where they had left it the day before. He wasn't wearing anything above his waist and he was afraid she would see him. Even in the bluish atmosphere of the early hours before sunrise, there was no doubt she'd notice the large white forms stretching behind him. She murmured his name; her eyelids twitched.

As if they had minds of their own, his wings extended and lifted him off the ground. He sailed above the treetops and then held steady, letting the air currents support him while he distinguished the black plume of smoke rising from the burning frame of Candy's father's cabin from the star-pricked, purple sky. The monstrous cloud of ash was expanding, littering the air with sparkling bits of flaming paper from the mounds of books, notes, and unfinished manuscripts Mr. Jarret Southern had piled into his retreat.

Warren spied Josh Gould and Avery Lewis below; they were running through the woods towards the BMW. Josh stopped suddenly and blocked Avery's chest with his arm. Were they about to look up? Could they perceive him through the darkness and smog? Again his wings responded ahead of his brain. He was flying away with no clue where he was going.

Candy's brilliant plan for their spring vacation had ended in a spectacular disaster. Warren had been wary when she first proposed the four of them spend several days at her father's secluded lodge in the Adirondacks back in late February.

"Come on guys, it'll be no big deal. Just tell your folks my dad has invited everyone up to Lake George for the weekend. I mean, Josh, your parents are in Switzerland, they only want to ski and be seen. Avery, your mom's in rehab and your dad's still in Cairo. I'm sure they've forgotten all about you…"

Candy, Josh, and Avery were 'working on a research project' with him that afternoon. They gathered in his private suite because he was the only student who was allowed to have one. Candy paused to suck on the cigarette she'd rolled. She walked up to Worthington with ribbons of smoke escaping between her teeth.

"Warren, let's see, this time of year… aren't your mother and father in Antibes? What do they care, really? Say you're being a normal teenager, doing what us normal kids do. We'll have such a great time! Our local friend will be making a special delivery and dear Daddy keeps the place well stocked."

Warren fidgeted with the lapels of his camel hair coat. The concept made him uneasy. But he couldn't refuse Candy Southern. None of the kids at Lindsley were able to.

Most of the girls imitated her in every possible way. When she cut her black hair to just below her ear over the summer, droves of other female students ordered their stylists to give them identically shortened coiffures. After Miss Southern lost interest in Marc Jacobs in preference for Ghesquière, not a single young lady who considered herself remotely popular failed to show up in Balenciaga for the December Fête. The devotion of these ingenuous followers irritated Candy. She preferred the company of Lindsley's male scholars.

The boys treasured any attention she gave them. If she merely joked with one in the hallway he'd beam with pride for the rest of the week. The abundance of her admirers traditionally required her to select a new favorite every month, yet since January she'd become exclusive to a crew of three: Avery Lewis, the captain of the lacrosse team who sported a budding politician's smile; Josh Gould, the whiz kid who aced every test without studying; and Warren, the blond billionaire's son who hadn't taken his coat off since Christmas.

Worthington was constantly teased for wearing the heavy garment all the time. He tried to use the excuse that he was cold – Lindsley's nineteenth century classrooms provided far from cozy conditions during the frigid northern New York winters. But the other students suspected what he knew to be true. The growths on his back were getting larger.

His mother had discovered the progress of his burgeoning limbs on Christmas Eve. They were staying in the old family manor, Falkenmore, in Centerport, Long Island, awaiting the arrival of his father, who was completing business in London. She walked into his room while he was putting on his clothes. The seams along the fabric of the brace he wore to obscure his deformities had split.

"It's all right, Mom. Look."

He buttoned his shirt and gallantly donned the specially tailored suit jacket. The bulges were still apparent. His back looked hunched and lumpy. She was horrified.

"Mom, please don't tell Father it's gotten worse… Don't let them cut me again. They'll only come back," Warren pleaded.

Kathryn Worthington's light blue eyes welled with tears. The boy was her only child. She did conceal the fact from her husband and arranged an appointment with Dr. Folterung to acquire a new brace. She also scheduled a fitting with Flitcroft & Thwaite for roomier shirts. During the visit the designers presented the camel hair topcoat. With it on Warren appeared nearly normal.

"You understand we're only putting off the surgery...until they've stopped growing," Kathryn informed her son.

Flying from the wreckage of Jarret Southern's lodge, he considered how different his mother had sounded when he called her to discuss Candy's invitation.

"Candy Southern asked you to stay over?" She was elated.

"Well, her dad told her she could bring along some friends…"

"You say it's a 'cabin?' Will you have your own quarters?"

"Of course, Mom; it's not a primitive backwoods shack."

"And are you…getting any better?"

"Actually, things have improved a lot. The brace is working great, no one notices a thing. I've been using Dr. Folterung's lotion every night. I think they're shrinking," he lied.

"Darling, I'm so happy. Candy is a terrific girl and her father, well I'm not familiar with his work, but he's highly regarded."

Warren laughed silently. He envisioned his mother's reaction to the scary psychedelic sex scenes in Mr. Southern's novels Candy read aloud to freak people out.

Lindsley's spring recess began on the second Thursday in March. It was almost twilight by the time Candy parked the shiny new BMW X5 she'd received for her sixteenth birthday in a pebbly patch alongside Route 9L. The four prep school sophomores grabbed their grocery bags of supplies – hotdogs, chips, mixers, etc. – and hiked a quarter mile through the woods to the cabin.

Warren was a little surprised to find the words 'primitive backwoods shack' came close to accurately describing the little house on Lake George. Candy explained that Daddy had made few improvements since he purchased the place from an old hunter twenty years earlier. Their cell phones didn't work and there was no electricity. In the center of the ground floor there was a potbelly wood-burning stove for heat and cooking. The small furnace divided the kitchen, which mostly consisted of a copper sink with a single tap for cold water, from the 'parlor,' an area featuring a tattered daybed, a low oval coffee table, a couple of spindly chairs, and shelves upon shelves stuffed with books and magazines.

Candy selected the remains of a fifth of bourbon from a crowd of half-filled bottles in the cabinet above the sink. Avery produced four plastic cups and they toasted their first night in the woods.

Soon darkness settled on the eastern side of the lake. Lamps filled with paraffin oil combined with wafting smoke trails gave their faces a soft, pinkish cast. Warren had never felt more relaxed. Although he'd refrained from drinking as much as the others, the two whiskey and sodas he'd slowly nursed over the past four hours made him feel like his head was floating.

He sat next to Candy on the daybed. Avery and Josh had surrendered their chairs in favor of a pile of pillows and blankets on the floor. Southern swung her dark curls at him.

"Warren, a puff?" she waved the lit spliff they'd been passing around before his face.

"No, I can't. I told you, my lungs…" It was a falsehood he'd been repeating for months.

"Right. You can breathe fine. I've never heard you cough once and I've known you since you were three," Josh remarked.

"It's okay," Candy drawled, bringing the joint to her lips and inhaling deeply, "we understand, Warren." A clump of vapor escaped her mouth as she exhaled. "You're afraid you'll forget yourself, take off your coat and your shirt and finally let us see the real you." She flung her arm dramatically to hand off the smoking fillet to Avery.

"What do you mean? The real me?" Warren protested. "You guys know me better than anyone. I have a problem with my back…"

"That's what I mean," she argued. "That's who you are. Whatever weirdness you're hiding under all those clothes…"

"And who are you, Candy? The girl whose dad wouldn't leave his playmate girlfriends long enough to watch his daughter get the school literary prize?"

No one had ever spoken so sharply to Miss Southern. Josh and Avery's bloodshot eyes widened.

"That's exactly who I am, Warren." Candy punctuated her statement by downing another shot of whiskey from the bottle of Bushmills they'd moved on to after finishing the bourbon. "And these guys," she said, gesturing towards Avery and Josh, "they're two boys in love who are too scared to admit it."

Southern rose, grabbed the liquor and headed for the door. Warren stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna check out Lake George," she said, staggering outside.

Warren almost tripped over the coffee table going after her. There was a half-moon and the clear horizon was peppered with stars but the looming trees blocked most of the light. Worthington thanked his ability to see in the dark and ran to the waterside. It was chilly. Candy must be freezing in her short-sleeved cotton top.

He saw her shortly. She was unsteadily tracing the lake perimeter. On this part of the shore there was a ten-foot rocky decline lining the water. Warren rushed to her side.

"Hi Candy…"

She dropped the bottle into the lake. As it fell, the empty vessel glinted in the moonlight. Candy spun into his arms.

"You arrre an idiot, Worthington…"

While supporting her neck with one arm, he scooped up her knees with the other. She didn't seem to weigh much and it made him feel strong. Maybe he'd become stronger? She stirred.

"Let me down," she requested.

With Warren's support, Candy tottered to the cabin. After they entered he saw the table had been pushed against the daybed. Avery and Josh were together under the blankets. The two peeked over the covers.

"Hey…" Avery warbled.

"Hey," Warren answered, while guiding Candy onto the daybed.

"Takes me up, Warren," she slurred.

"Take you where?" Warren asked tenderly. She seemed lost and unwell.

"Upstairs… Grab a lamp n' takes me upstairs…"

"She probably means the loft," Josh suggested. He pointed to the ladder on the far side of the parlor. "Up there."

After turning down the flame on one of the oil lamps, Warren clenched it in his left hand while carrying Candy Southern to the upper level of the house. He set her down on the narrow pallet on the floor. Ahead there was a small writing desk with a manual typewriter facing a window with a grand view of the lake. Manuscripts, loose pages, scraps of newsprint, journals, letters, and various other papers, were piled up around them, arranged like giant anthills. Warren placed the lamp at the foot of the mattress. Candy lay on her back and rolled her head from side to side.

"You're such an idiot. I'll takes my clothes off..." Southern quickly peeled off her shirt revealing a diaphanous, silk bra.

"Candy, stop… You shouldn't do this,"

Candy opened her eyes.

"Come down here," she beckoned with her index finger; she whispered, "you takes your clothes off…"

"Okay, I will."

He started with the coat. His shoulders felt so much lighter without it. Then he removed the thick cashmere sweater. There was only his shirt left and then the brace. He looked down and saw her eyes had closed.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" he asked the unconscious girl.

He stretched out his wings for the first time. The room was only twelve feet wide and he couldn't fully extend them. But it felt great. Candy was right, this was his true self

"Warren?" she was staring at him.

She covered her face with her hands.

"Whoa, I'm seeing shit." Her left foot reflexively kicked over the oil lamp as she fell back into her stupor.

A stream of flaming paraffin spilled out igniting a mini mountain of paper three inches away. Soon another pile took flame. The ladder was blocked by fire; the window was their only option. Warren yelled down to Josh and Avery.

"Josh! Avery! Do you guys hear me?"

"Yeah… what?" came the confused response.

"You have to leave now! This place is on fire! I've got Candy, you guys get the hell outta here!"

He wrapped her in his overcoat and carried her to the window. He quickly found the latch to release the pane and opened it. Cradling her, he flew outside into the night. To his amazement, his wings functioned like an extra set of arms. Until this moment all he had felt from them was pain. Now they lifted and strengthened him. Within seconds the BMW in the gravel clearing was beneath him. Without realizing how, he pulled in his appendages and landed on the ground. Southern never locked the car, so Warren had no trouble sliding her into the back seat. He continued to gaze at her face as he rose into the sky.

Fleeing Josh, Avery, Candy, and the fire, he soared higher and higher. Piloting through dark blue-gray and violet clouds, he pursued stars that burned brighter and clearer than he had ever seen. The cabin and Lindsley and his parents and everything else had disappeared. Nothing could touch him here. This was where he belonged. He bet the temperature was practically zero yet he didn't feel cold. How far could he go? Suddenly he felt dizzy. Maybe he was a little tired. He struggled to breathe…

What was happening? He was falling. Lines and boxes grew into a small brick building and tracks, train tracks! His wings spread, catching a rising air pocket; like a parachute they slowed his descent. He stumbled when he hit the ground. Studying the location he concluded he was in the old rail yards in Saratoga Springs. He'd traveled a distance of thirty miles.

The sun was rising. It must be close to six o'clock in the morning. He had to get to the Academy. It was closer than Lake George. Once there, he hoped he'd find out if the others were okay. But he was too exhausted to try that flying thing again. The chill in the air touched him; clasping his bare shoulders, he remembered he was exposed.

He fixed his sight on a sleeping figure on a bench on the platform of the desolate depot three hundred feet away. Warren trudged over the tracks to the station. His billowing wings whipped up the wind, scattering yellowed newspapers and candy wrappers in his wake as he approached the unconscious person. The man's weathered features, long stringy hair, and worn overcoat marked him as homeless. The length of the coat interested Worthington. The unknown citizen appeared to be quite tall; Warren's own height at the time was five feet ten inches.

The wretched coat would cover him. He pulled at his ring finger on his left hand. It was the only currency he had – his grandfather's golden signet band. It was supposed to be worn on his pinky but his hands weren't fully grown. He glanced at the image etched into the metal: an eagle perched on a shield with three swords crowned by the family motto, "Semper Excelsius."

After pushing the ring over the swollen knuckle of the vagrant's little finger, Warren set about removing the overcoat. The man awoke and sat up. Worthington stepped backwards.

"I'd like to buy your coat," he proposed, trying to sound casual.

"Yes," the man nodded.

"I gave you my ring…" Warren pointed to the man's left hand.

The man blinked at the gold. "I only want to know one thing," he said. "Why you come now and not before?"

Warren stared into the grayish pupils swimming in the glassy eyes of his aged vendor. "Uh, I came now because… I was doing other stuff before," he answered, a bit uncertainly.

The man unbuttoned the coat and removed one of his arms. "Is Lucinda up there?"

"I'm sorry, who is Lucinda?" Warren was confused. Swirling air currents ruffled his feathers.

The man rushed at him, the coat half hanging off. "I'm not going unless you got my Lucinda!" he yelled. Then he fell on his knees, sobbing.

Warren realized he had to play the role of a heavenly messenger. "Forgive me. I didn't hear you. Lucinda waits for you, always."

The vagabond pulled off the other half of the coat and handed it to him.

"I'll come again and take you to her," the winged teenager responded and walked away.

Though he left the drifter on the station platform, the old codger's moans channeling the lost Lucinda followed him for several hundred yards. The Lindsley Academy was approximately eighteen miles to the west. Warren headed in the direction of Route 29, where perhaps a passing motorist would give a ride to a young man in a dirty coat with stray feathers trailing his steps.

He'd been hiking along the road for an hour when he passed a state trooper patrol car at an intersection. The sight made him anxious, causing his hands to pull the filthy jacket tighter around his shoulders. The cruiser did not pursue him. Close to twenty minutes later a familiar vehicle steered onto the side of highway a few yards ahead – a 1965 custom Rolls Royce Silver Wraith limousine. A heavy set middle-aged man emerged wearing a slate gray chauffeur's uniform. Maybe everything would be okay. Viktor had arrived.

"How did you find me?" Warren asked, ensconced in the warm interior of the Rolls.

"It's all over the news. But don't worry. They put out the fire. Miss Southern was found in her SUV, she's fine, nothing wrong. Mr. Gould and Mr. Lewis are okay, some smoke inhalation, but they are all right. It's you no one knows about. Then my policeman friend called me saying a young man wearing an old coat was walking along Route 29 and here we are."

"Anything left of the cabin?"

"Nothing."

Warren noticed Viktor had turned the car around and was heading back towards Saratoga Springs.

"Where are we going? I thought you were driving me to school…"

"Master Worthington, I cannot take you back there. Your father tells me you must go to Falkenmore. No stopping nowhere…"

"I get it, Viktor. Take me home."

He never returned to Lindsley.

* * *

"Oh my god! Josh, look! It's Warren. He's here to save us."

Candy's big, long-lashed eyes were shining. She seemed to be more excited than alarmed that she was about to experience a skyscraper collapse from the seventieth story. Josh Gould was bent over in a cringing position, facing the one solid wall that remained. Slowly he moved his head towards the frightening blankness where the rest of the hallway should have been.

"Hi, Warren. Oh, I'm gonna be sick..." Josh turned back and shut his eyes as firmly as possible. "I'm really sorry, everyone, I have a difficulty…with heights." His voice trembled.

A deep, low, groan emanated from the swaying structure, followed by a snap. The floor shifted. Candy and the elderly man were thrown against Josh, who slid dangerously close to the precipice.

"I can only take two people at a time," Warren explained, gliding in.

Candy regained her balance and helped the older gentleman to his feet. "Take Josh, and Mr. Heifitz."

"Candy, are you crazy?" Josh was panting.

"Miss Southern, I refuse…" Mr. Heifitz objected.

"You have a heart condition! Take them now, Warren, or all three of us will die. Do it!"

Using his right arm Warren reached around Josh's chest and lifted him up.

"Hang on to my neck," Angel instructed. Josh was shaking so hard he could barely control his limbs. "It's all right, we'll make it," Worthington assured his friend.

Warren took hold of the old man with his left arm and stretched his wings to their full sixteen-foot span. As they sailed down into the river of emergency vehicles, press vans, and spotlights, another groan reverberated through the steel girders. Warren tilted his head and watched the hallway above crumble, dropping Candy Southern into the air.


	22. The Reservoir

**Chapter 21 – The Reservoir**

The light inundated his vision. He felt it penetrating his crimson quartz crystal glasses, rushing through his eye sockets until it scorched his brain. The incandescent being floated before the Professor, her flaming hair rising and crackling, while wings of fire fanned out from her shoulder blades. Rays shooting from her body splintered into millions of prismatic sparks. A sharp pain hit Scott Summers in the chest as he realized his worst nightmare was in progress. The burning entity on the other side of the glass was obliterating the woman he loved, Jean Grey.

"Hank! Let me in there!" Cyclops demanded.

There was no answer. Scott looked behind him and saw the others were not only blinded, but seemingly paralyzed by the searing brilliance. He whipped his head back around and mentally addressed the blazing figure.

_Who are you?_

The radiant creature turned away from Professor Xavier and glided over to the window that separated her from the antechamber. Scott's breaths became shallow. She was studying him. Her eyes, bright as suns, bore into his mind, searching for something…

Everything went dark.

"What's going on, Hank?" It was Logan asking now.

"It's impossible… She's blown the entire grid…" Beast responded.

"Release the vault or I'm going to start blasting!" Summers yelled, ready to assault the portal with the thermonuclear beams the ruby quartz lenses barely managed to contain.

"That's three feet of adamantium, Cyke. It'll take you a while," Logan remarked.

"It's okay. I can get us in. All I need is power." Hank McCoy aimed the last word at Storm.

"How much?" she inquired as her eyes began to glow with voltaic energy.

"Five hundred watts cycling at three hundred fifty megahertz directed at this panel. Three bursts at two second intervals."

Veins of electric current curled around Ororo's arms. Splaying her fingers she conducted the dynamic streams towards the target. The hatch opened.

Storm suspended a ball of electro-magnetic plasma in the air above her palm to illuminate their way into Cerebro. Scott, Logan, and McCoy followed her inside.

Xavier's voice emerged immediately.

"Jean? Are you here?" He sounded alarmed.

The orb lit the area in front of the Professor revealing Jean Grey's motionless form on the floor. The flames had consumed her clothing leaving her naked; strands of her red hair clung to her damp face. Beside her lay the melted remnants of the remote Cerebro device and the neural disruptor.

"Oh my god, Jean!" Scott ran to her.

Ororo flung her cloak over the unconscious eighteen-year-old and knelt by her side. Logan crouched down a millisecond later.

"Jean, can you hear me?" Summers gently brushed the hair back from her forehead.

"Jeannie, you all right?" asked Wolverine.

Her eyelids fluttered and then opened. "I'm fine," she answered and pushed herself off the floor.

"You brought me back, Jean. I am grateful," Xavier said.

The lights came on.

"Good show, Hank," Storm commented, walking over to assist Professor X.

"I switched on the auxiliary circuits connected to the Beta Reactor. But I'm afraid it will take days to get Cerebro up and running once more," Beast reported, surveying the main console.

Ororo removed the restraints that had held Charles in his chair. She lifted the helmet mechanism off his head and helped him detach the medical sensors.

"Thank you." Xavier smiled at the Windrider. He turned to Jean and the others, "I promise all of you I won't venture lightly into hazardous territory again."

"Why don't we all go up and get some sleep?" suggested Ororo.

"An excellent idea," replied Charles, steering his wheelchair in the direction of the exit.

"I have to get back to Manhattan." Jean's statement stopped everyone in their tracks.

"What? Now? Are you nuts?" Scott asked, incredulously.

"There are things I need to do…" Grey gathered Storm's cape closer.

"How can you think about going anywhere? You blew up Cerebro! And melted the interface and the disruptor thing… I didn't know who you were. You totally lost control… You were on fire!" While he spoke, Summers looked to the Professor for support.

"I only did what was necessary and I didn't lose control, Scott."

"You maintained as much control as you could, Jean. My actions brought you here and I am responsible for putting all of us through a highly stressful incident. Yet I do feel you should consider staying for a little while. We've all endured a lot. You can return to the University in the afternoon, after you've had a chance to rest for a few hours," Xavier advised.

"Well, I'd like to take a shower, and I'll need to grab some clothes from my room, but after that I'm leaving. I want to stay, but I have too much work due tomorrow…"

"If you believe you must," Charles conceded. "However, we still need to discuss what happened here."

"I'll make time next weekend for our monthly session, okay?"

"All right, Jean." The Professor and Ororo left the chamber.

"Guess I'll have to drive you," Scott grumbled.

"No, don't worry about it. Logan will take me." Jean shifted her attention from Cyclops to Wolverine.

Logan nodded. "See you outside in ten minutes, Red."

* * *

Jean stepped into the shower. The warm droplets against her skin soothed the soreness in her shoulders and neck. It would be nice to fall into clean sheets and collapse for a few hours, she thought. But she couldn't tell what Charles was really thinking and she no longer trusted his words.

Less than twenty minutes earlier their minds had been one. Yet her recollection of what had occurred was disjointed. Did she touch a star? Had a living, sentient sun embraced her? It didn't make any sense. Stars weren't alive. They didn't feel things…

As soon as their bond was broken, a strange, new, inviolable shroud arose, obscuring Xavier's thoughts. If she did go to sleep, how did she know she wouldn't wake up strapped to an examination table in one of the medical bays, or worse, caged up in the Danger Room again?

Her head hit the ceiling.

_Oh no…_

She was levitating. The liquid flowing from the shower head formed floating clumps which began drifting into the other parts of the bathroom. Jean kicked the valve, shutting off the water. She willed the glass panels to part and glided over the tiles. Using her telekinesis she yanked a towel off one of the chrome bars and wrapped it around her body. She viewed her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her scarlet tresses stretched upwards; fiery rivulets pulsed within her irises.

_Keep it inside. You can do this. Just get out of here…_

She concentrated on the small rug beneath her. She wanted to dig her toes in the fluffy material. Her feet sank into the mat. She was grounded. Her eyes returned to their normal gold-streaked, emerald green.

Picking up her toothbrush, she started cleaning her teeth. She perceived someone standing outside in the hall. Turning the knob with her thoughts, she opened the door.

"They don't have showers in the city?"

Jean spat fluoride paste into the basin. "I'm almost done, Rogue."

"What? You're not going to make me wait while you curl your eyelashes and blow dry your hair? Guess that was the old days. Well, you sure made a mess. Did you fling water everywhere for fun? Oh, wait, you probably lost it…"

"Why are you awake, Rogue? Isn't six in the morning on a Sunday a little early for you?"

"You woke me up. I was having this weird dream – Hank and Ororo and Scott were all worried about Xavier. Then Logan showed up with you and you somehow saved the Professor but it made Scott really mad. You guys had this big fight and then Logan started fighting Scott, then everyone was in it. We were all tearing each other apart. Then I heard the shower running and I thought Jean must be back."

"Not for much longer. I'm actually about to leave." Grey tightened the towel around her bosom and grabbed Ororo's cloak. Slipping through the slim space between Rogue's side and the doorjamb, she moved across the hallway and entered her bedroom.

Rogue turned rapidly and held out her arm, preventing the redhead from closing the door. "You can tell me, you know," said the seventeen-year-old. "It's not like I can't understand what you're going through."

"I don't have time. Next Saturday, I'll be here. We can talk then."

Rogue retreated. "Whatever, Jean."

Grey shut the door. Scanning her quarters, she found everything was as she had left it. But instead of bringing her comfort, this observation disturbed her. Was her college career simply a brief vacation from her life as one of the X-Men?

She dressed quickly, throwing on an old pair of jeans, a black turtleneck and a short, cream-colored jacket. She raced to the stairwell. Scott was waiting at the landing.

"Are you positive you want to go?" he asked.

She knew what he was doing. He wanted her to probe his mind. He wanted her to experience the pain she was causing him.

"I have to, Scott. Goodbye." She sped down the steps and ran outside.

* * *

Her cheeks were flushed when she rushed out the front door of the mansion. Logan also noticed her hair wasn't quite dry.

"I don't like waiting, Red," he said, leaning against the shining Harley-Davidson motorbike.

"How long has it been?"

"Almost fifteen minutes since we split Cerebro."

"I'm sorry, I'll try to keep better track of the time." Jean appeared nervous and unsure. Her damp locks began rising into the air and her feet lifted several inches off the ground.

"Here, I think you need to keep this on." Logan handed her the weighted vest and straddled the chopper.

Jean put on the gravity-regulating garment and scooted onto the saddle behind Wolverine. After grabbing the extra helmet from the chrome seat back, she secured it on her head, fastening the clasp under her chin. Logan felt her reach around his mid-section. He kick-started the engine and the cycle roared into the sunrise.

They traveled south on Route 22 along the cliffs overlooking the vast Kensico Reservoir. The dawn cast a violet hue upon the rippling water. The swaying trees were still fully leaved but the foliage sported pockets of orange and yellow. The only thing that marred the beauty of the early autumn scenery was a billboard promoting Edward Kelly for Mayor – "The candidate who will represent the People of Bayville. The man who will help US stand against THEM."

Logan would have chuckled, were it not for his fear that the sign was a harbinger of a massive political movement motivated by ignorance and hatred. Kelly was the former principal of Bayville High School. He had personally witnessed numerous episodes in which the lives of ordinary citizens had been endangered by the violent actions of mutants. Even though his students had included Scott and Jean and the other junior X-Men, all Kelly saw was individuals with genetic advantages dominating, violating, and out-classing those without.

Jean didn't seem to be aware of the billboard. She had turned her head to the side and was resting on his back. He realized he hadn't really thought about her much until last night; she'd just been another girl on the team, one of the few young ones he didn't have to worry about in the midst of a fight. Unlike Rogue, who was insubordinate, alienated, and unpredictable, Jean had always appeared confident and responsible. She had the potential to be damn fine soldier. Of course, that was before the final battle with Apocalypse.

Now she was behaving so strangely: uncertain and unstable. She needed him; he was sure of it. He figured he could relate to her isolation better than anyone else.

As the Harley-Davidson cruised onto the Saw Mill Expressway, Logan sensed her tightening her hold on him, nestling her face in the creases of his leather jacket. He started having trouble keeping his mind on the road, the concrete dividers and the sunlight and the exit signs and the rest of the world faded away. His heart was racing. The sensations generated by the physical contact with her body were so intense they were painful.

Why did he suddenly want this woman so badly? What was happening to him? These were new emotions for Wolverine. Sex, like alcohol, and when justified, kicking ass, was something he indulged in occasionally. But Jean Grey was taking over his mind.

What was it about this girl with fire inside her? Was it her beauty? She was undeniably gorgeous. Or maybe, it was her telepathy. Could she be making him fall in love with her? She probably knew everything he was thinking at that very moment…

They arrived at the Hamilton Residence Hall on Morningside Drive. Jean dismounted and took off her helmet, shaking out her hair in the wind. Wolverine got off the bike and removed his helmet as well. He looked at the redhead.

"Do you want me to walk you in there?" he asked.

He felt vibrations spreading over every inch of his skin; she was lifting him. He was afloat in a sea of fingertips. Jean drifted up to his face. She kissed him. He grasped her head in his hands and brought her closer.

_She's just a kid!_ He thought. _She doesn't know what she's doing..._

Logan pulled his hands back and jerked away. She let him down.

"Jean, don't ever do that again, unless you mean it."

"You're right. I'm sorry… I just got confused…" she stammered as the soles of her shoes met the sidewalk.

"You've been through a lot. Get some rest."

Wolverine got back on the Harley. Jean turned to walk into the residence hall.

_Thank you, Logan…_

"Bye, Jean."


	23. The Rescue

**Chapter 22 – The Rescue**

Warren looked out his office window. Distorted clouds, lit by the mid-morning sunlight, swam across the reflective paneled exteriors of the towers of Manhattan. Everything he felt about the city had changed. It was suddenly a hostile, unfamiliar place with rules he didn't understand. His mind raced backwards, reviewing the past four hours.

He'd had no time to think. He spied a stretch of asphalt large enough to receive two falling adult males next to the bank of ambulances and fire trucks that surrounded the base of the Richard Meier building. It would have to suffice as a landing strip. From six feet above Josh Gould and the old man might well break their legs, or worse, but Candy Southern was going to cleave a crater in the middle of First Avenue if he didn't drop them now.

"Bend your knees! I have to let you go!" Warren shouted.

In a single coordinated move, the Angel released the two men, arched upwards and caught the girl tumbling from the sky. She smacked into his arms. He was shocked when she started laughing, as if she were on a ride at an amusement park.

Helicopters with spotlights whirred overhead blocking the path above to obscurity. Angel was trapped. There was nowhere to hide. When he rescued people before – from burning high-rises or bridge accidents or other perils – he'd taken cover behind a cloud of smoke or quickly left the scene before hordes of reporters arrived. He'd never found himself in the midst of a media onslaught like this. Unless he wanted to provide a video close-up of his face and Candy's for one of the aerial camera operators, the only option was descent.

Although blurry, distant footage of a man with wings had popped up on lots of websites, and indistinct pictures had appeared on news shows and in papers for almost ten months, no clear images of his physical features had emerged. And ever since his mutation first manifested in his early adolescence, all employees of the Worthington household had been carefully vetted and required to sign strict confidentiality agreements. Unlike Xavier, Jean, Ororo and several other X-Men, who had made public statements defending the rights of mutants, the Angel had remained an anonymous hero.

But he always knew the secret of his identity wouldn't last. Drifting down holding Candy, he realized that his subconscious desire to be discovered was the reason he'd ceased wearing a mask. He'd never felt right hiding his face – he wasn't a criminal. Forcing his father to confront reports linking the term 'mutant' to the Worthington name was something he'd wanted to do for years. Perhaps the moment had come.

Candy seemed aware of his dilemma. A searching beam from one of the circling choppers lit up her large eyes.

"This is the second time you've rescued me, isn't it? I knew you had to be the Angel. Guess it's time to come out of the tower."

They sank into a sea of video lights and camera flashes. A thin strip of yellow and black police tape guarded by a small complement of officers was all that separated Warren, Candy, the wounded victims, and the emergency workers from the swelling throng of spectators and press.

The moment his feet hit the ground, Warren felt an instinctual urge to leave Candy and return to the sky, despite the presence of the airborne media; but he needed to find out if Josh and Mr. _Heifitz_ were all right. He squinted as multiple camera crews aimed their lights at his head. The reporters shouted questions over the din of screaming sirens coming from the rescue vehicles and police cars.

"Why did you save the men first?"

"Angel, tell us your real name!"

"Are you with the X-Men?"

There was too much noise. Warren was confused. Candy took his hand.

"Just ignore them. Come on, Josh is this way."

Two paramedics were preparing to load Josh Gould into an ambulance. Candy and Warren rushed to the truck.

"Josh! What happened to you?" Southern called to her friend.

"I only fractured my collar bone. I'm fine, really," Josh answered, while the emergency workers raised his stretcher.

"Where's Mr. Heifitz?" Warren asked.

"They got him in the van already. He broke his legs..." Josh paused, noticing Angel's pained reaction. "Warren, I owe you my life. You saved us all."

One of the EMTs climbed inside after Gould and closed up the rear of the ambulance. The other approached Candy.

"You should get checked out, Miss. There's another ambulance over there." The medical technician pointed out an emergency crew tending to a policeman who'd been hit by falling debris. "We'd take you but it's full in there now." The rescue worker directed his words solely at Southern; he avoided eye contact with the mutant.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Candy responded. "Which hospital are you going to?"

"Metropolitan. Are you family?"

"No. We're very close friends. All of us are, in fact." She looked at Warren.

"Well, they won't let you in until visiting hours then." The EMT entered the passenger side of the vehicle. "Nine a.m.," he said and shut the door.

Standing beside Southern, Angel watched the ambulance drive off. If he'd gone directly to the site of the crane collapse instead of wasting time searching for Jean, Josh and Mr. Heifitz wouldn't be going to the hospital with shattered bones, he thought. Jean Grey didn't need him and probably didn't want him. Two people were suffering because he'd flown off chasing a dream.

"Well, I'm headed downtown," said Candy, bringing him back to the present.

"What? Wasn't that your apartment? Where are you going to sleep? You look like you haven't gone to bed yet." Warren glanced at her cerulean chiffon evening gown.

"Josh and I were out – at one of Fiona Sachler's parties. Do you remember her? Well, they always go late… He came up to talk about his new boyfriend. They're having problems, Josh doesn't want to commit, you know, give the guy keys to the brownstone, etcetera…"

"Do you want to stay with me? Until visiting hours start at the hospital? I've got five bedrooms on my floor in the Tower no one ever uses." Warren hoped his offer didn't sound like a proposition.

"Stay in the Tower… It's funny. I always pictured you living up there. Well, honestly, I don't have my handbag or anything. So I was going to have to ask you for a lift anyway…and I'd love to see the place after all these years."

Candy slid her arm around Warren's neck.

"You're okay with flying after that fall?" he asked.

"If anything happens, I know you'll catch me."

He swept up her legs and rose into the air. He remembered the feel of her body. It might have been merely the adrenaline pumping though his bloodstream, but she didn't seem heavy at all. She felt just right.

The news choppers had dispersed. The skies might be clear for the four minute flight fifty-four blocks south to 500 Fifth Avenue. Candy was tense at first, but as they soared above the skyscrapers she relaxed. Warren sensed her eyes on his face during their spiral descent to the glass rooftop of the Worthington Tower.

With a quick motion of his wrist, he triggered an eighteen-foot wide opening in the transparent surface. Sailing downward through the aperture, he resisted returning her gaze. If he looked at Candy right now he'd have to kiss her.

He kept his focus on the multicolored skylight a hundred feet below. The red-haired angel glowed in the darkness, floating in her circular encasement, marking the way to the interior of the building. The translucent beauty approved of his restraint. Then, as her painted visage grew closer, her expression appeared to change. The curve of her garnet mouth sharpened. Was she mocking him?

Candy's lips weren't made of crystal; they were soft and real and she was lying in his arms. While they hovered a few yards above the skylight, Warren turned his head to meet Southern's big, dark eyes.

Suddenly a harsh whiteness bleached out her face. The slicing rhythm of power-driven rotors churning in the air blasted his ears. He spun around to confront the intruders, swinging Candy out of the glare. It was one of the news choppers. Behind the spotlight, a cameraman leaned out of the aircraft to get a better angle.

Worthington immediately used the wristband to close the hole in the roof. But the helicopter did not retreat. The video crew continued recording them through the glass. Still holding Candy, he remotely activated the stained glass window. It moved aside. After they were safely within his office, the sixteen-foot circle slid back into position over their heads. The chopper finally departed. Yet, even as he heard the sound of the propeller fading away, Angel dreaded the coptor's return.

He set Candy down on the Brazilian Walnut and Red Oak inlaid floor. Her stiletto heels clicked on the polished wood. She touched his chest.

"Warren, it's all right. They're gone. No one is watching us anymore," she said, looking up at him.

"They practically broke in… What do they want?" Warren shook his head.

"They want a story."

"I bet I know what story it'll be. My father's not going to like it." Warren stretched out his wings and sat down on the silk-upholstered divan that was centered underneath the skylight.

Candy joined him on the couch. "I know it's been a long time, but as I recall, you don't particularly like your father."

"We see the world differently. He wants me to be someone I'm not."

"Don't your parents know about 'the Angel?' They must've come across something in the news."

"We have an unspoken agreement. They ignore my activities, as long as the family name doesn't show up next to a shot of a mutant."

"But this was bound to happen, Warren, sooner or later. Did you really think you could keep your identity from the press indefinitely?"

"You're right. I should've planned for it, somehow. I guess I never really thought it through – I just started doing things, helping people…"

"Well, beginning today, the people you help will know who to thank. And maybe your dad will get a better idea of who his son is."

Warren rose to his feet. "Let me show you your room," he said, moving towards the east exit.

Candy followed him out of the office into the ornate hallway that comprised the east corridor. The black walnut lines in the floor spread to the walls where they bordered blocks of red chevrons. Warren pointed to the door on his right.

"This is the Blue Room, next is the Gold Room and the one after that is the Rose Room. The Green Room is at the end of hall. And on your left, partway down, is the Burgundy Room."

"This is totally different from what I remember. These bedrooms weren't here."

"They were executive offices. After Father's new building on Columbus Circle was completed, my parents converted this floor into a residence. So we'd be closer to my doctors."

"Well, I have to give your father credit for that place on the Circle. It's amazing, especially the lobby – those sound sculptures and the inverted waterfall…"

"I wouldn't know. I've never been inside."

An uncomfortable silence trailed Warren's statement. Candy fingered the globe-like crystal knob of the nearest door on her left.

"What color is this room?" she asked.

"That's my bedroom. It's mostly gray. I'm going to stop sleeping in there though. The ceilings aren't high enough."

"What? You aren't twenty feet tall, Warren."

"I scraped my nose…while I was dreaming. I suppose I was flying while unconscious."

"Oh, that's how you got that cut." She let go of the knob. "I was so worried I'd slashed you with my heel when you caught me. Well, guess I'll take the Burgundy Room. Oh wait. Do you have an extra set of pajamas? This outfit is a little restrictive…" Southern adjusted a dress strap that had fallen off her shoulder.

"There're several things in the closet. My mother used to like that room."

"I'd rather not wear one of your mom's nightgowns. I could just borrow one of your t-shirts or something."

"I don't own any t-shirts. I can't wear them. I think you'd find the shirts I do have a little strange." He flexed his wings.

"Forgive me. I'm such an idiot." Candy walked down the hall to the Burgundy Room.

"Don't worry about it, please," he said. Candy paused by the door. "You know my mom never wore any of that stuff. Bergdorf's just delivered everything so the room would be ready, if she ever decided to drop in. And she hasn't."

Candy looked back at him and smiled. "I'll see you in a few hours, thanks for saving my life."

* * *

Angel lowered his sight from the mirrored sides of the skyscrapers to the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street sixty stories below his apartment. It was 9 a.m. and a crowd, six, maybe eight layers deep encircled the building. Hundreds of gleaming telephoto lenses jostled for inches of sidewalk.

Nearly eighty private security agents blocked access to the main lobby and other entrances. As soon as Viktor saw what was developing, he'd called in dozens of extra personnel. These guys were professionals; they weren't letting anyone in. The Worthington Tower had become an armed fortress. Warren knew his life would never be the same.

He wanted to escape. He wished he was back in the mountain cavern over the Pacific Ocean, where he'd taken refuge after Charles Xavier told him Jean would be better off if he stayed away from the Institute. His only companions for days had been Tundra Swans and the occasional albatross. He remembered waking up on the cold dry earth hearing Jean's voice in his head. A crackling blurt suspended his thoughts. It was Viktor on the intercom.

"Mister Worthington…"

"Yes, Viktor?"

"A request has come through to security."

"What is it?"

"It is Barneys New York. They say they are making a delivery to a Miss Candy Southern on the 60th Floor."

"Yeah, it's okay. You can send up the packages."

"There are also two young ladies who say they are Ms. Southern's personal wardrobe coordinator and an assistant."

"No people, Viktor."

Warren returned his attention to the masses gathering outside. He watched two ridiculously fashionable girls stomp through the throng and scuttle into a cab. A minute later, the click of vintage Manolo Blahnik stiletto pumps accompanied by the swish of silk pants announced the arrival of his guest. Candy, wearing burgundy pajamas from Bergdorf's, joined him at the window. She patted his shoulder.

"Don't worry. It won't always be this bad. They'll be chasing a new mutant next week."

She left him and strolled to the small sunlit table where tea and coffee and scones had been laid out. She poured coffee from the engraved silver server into one of the china cups. The porcelain was emblazoned with the red and black Worthington insignia. Stirring in sugar with a teaspoon, she began touring the space.

"When I first came here, we were in what, eighth grade?" she asked.

"Sounds right." Warren turned away from monitoring the gawkers and cameras on the street and crossed to her side.

"Daddy didn't have time to drive me back to Lindsley, so he dropped me off here, to get a ride with you and your lovely parents. There were these mats here…" Candy pointed out a portion of the floor.

"Japanese cushions."

"Yeah. And we had to sit, in like total silence while your dad finished his work."

"I remember."

"You were in so much pain." Candy scraped the bottom of her coffee cup with her spoon. "You'd just had one of your operations so you couldn't lean against the car seats without it hurting a lot. And your father kept telling you to sit back like you were supposed to."

"He's never cared how I felt, about anything." Warren followed her to the middle of the chamber.

"I can't believe this was his old executive suite."

"I've made a lot of changes."

Candy stopped next to the divan and looked up at the stained glass window. "I saw this when you brought me in. Was it installed recently?"

"No. It was always here. My dad disliked my grandfather's taste. He covered it over, as well as the mahogany coffering and the paneled walls. I restored all the fixtures…"

"Do you know who did this?" she interrupted.

"You mean the artist? I don't actually. Do you?"

"It's gotta be Alphonse Czerny."

"Who was he?"

"One of the greatest decorative artists of the twentieth century. This must be one of his last pieces. He left the States in 1934. No one else did this kind of work." Candy was transfixed. "The redheaded angel, that's Rosalind Grey."

Warren's stomach jumped like he was in free fall. "Who?"

"Rosalind Grey. Czerny's favorite model. She was a Martha Graham dancer and became kind of an 'it' girl in the art scene in the early thirties. Didn't stick around long though. She disappeared around the same time Alphonse left the country. She must have had something going on with your granddad..."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Well, I've never seen her nude before. Close, you know, see-thru drapery, but never totally naked. I doubt she would have taken it all off for just anybody. And this was his private office, right?"

Viktor's flanged syllables popped from the intercom speaker. "Miss Southern's packages are waiting for her in the Burgundy Room. Security had to inspect them. Apologies for the delay."

Candy sauntered back to the tea set-up and put down her cup. "I hope those rent-a-cop boys enjoyed the lace panties I ordered."

"I'm sorry about that. I didn't know they were going to rifle through those bags."

"Oh, I don't care. But I better go put on something so you and I can visit Josh at the hospital." Candy brushed one of his wings on her way to the exit.

"I can't go. It'd be a madhouse," he said as she passed him.

Southern stood in the doorway. "I understand. I'll tell him and Mr. Heifitz you send your best."

"I'm afraid you'll have a rough time getting out of here. When Viktor drives the car out of the garage you guys will probably have to run over several photographers."

"That's okay, I don't need a ride. I think I'll stop by my bank on 43rd and the subway's right there."

"But those people will tear you apart…"

"I'll be fine. I know how to deal with the press." Candy rested her hand on the door handle. "I'm one of them. I'm a reporter for New York Magazine."

"Oh…" Warren's brow became knotted.

"I hope we can still be friends."

"Of course. I'm a little freaked out by everything, that's all."

"One more thing, you can tell Viktor to deliver the clothes from Barneys to my loft in Tribeca, since I'll be staying downtown for the foreseeable future."

"I thought it was a little weird you having an apartment on the Upper East Side. What's the address?"

"It's my dad's old place. 10 White Street, top floor."

The death of Jarret Southern had been a major news item some months ago. "I'm sorry you lost him." Warren tried to sound sympathetic.

"I'm not. I got his money and that's all he ever gave me anyway. Thanks for the hospitality." Candy winked at him. "See you around."


	24. Fire Made Flesh

**Chapter 23 – Fire Made Flesh**

_Shi'mor…the falcon of fire, the Phoenix…_

She was hungry. The nuclei fusing at her core burned with the hunger of new life. The transmutation was complete; the star and the human girl, Jean Grey, had become one. Every strand of DNA curled within each cell of the tiny Earthling's body was imbued with cosmic light. The promethean entity was fire made flesh; power incarnate.

Searching for sustenance, she gazed at her stellar companion, M'Kraan. The two suns were formed simultaneously from the collapse of a giant molecular nebula. Phoenix could taste the succulent energy of her roiling, fiery twin. Her sibling was no more alive than an inert gas cloud; M'Kraan would never think, never breathe, and never feel.

Flaming talons tore into the heart of the nonconscious solar mass. Bathing in gushing streams of matter and antimatter, Phoenix gorged herself. She now shone as bright as a supernova. M'Kraan, reduced to a millionth of her former size, was a dim white dwarf, aged prematurely ten billion years. The diminished star's once blinding corona had been stripped away; only a faint, flickering layer of residual hydrogen covered her solidifying remains. But a new power germinated deep inside the hardening carbon, where a shimmering lattice-work grew into a single, glowing crystal.

A hundred and fifty million kilometers away, a small planet suddenly began to cool. Its molten surface congealed. Clouds escaping M'Kraan's shrunken carcass, containing oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide, penetrated the nitrogen-rich atmosphere of the orbiting rock. Phoenix watched the creatures evolving in the newly formed, churning seas; they would soon worship her. Calling her Shi'mor, the falcon of fire, they would name themselves Shi'ar, the falcon people.

* * *

"It's rather hard on your vision, gazing at the sun like that."

Someone was talking to her. The male voice pronounced 'rather' with a broad 'a' sound. He must be English. She looked down. His light gray eyes glimmered below. Where was she? The grand marble columns of the Low Memorial Library lay before her. She was in the middle of the University campus, floating five feet above the soft grass of the quad. Close to a hundred students, stopped in their tracks, were staring at her. Was she at least wearing clothes? Yes. Okay, maybe she could handle this.

The gray-eyed Englishman reached out to her. "Care for some assistance?"

She took his hand and let him pull her to the ground. Unlike everyone else surrounding her, she sensed no fear coming from him. "Thank you," she said, feeling dizzy.

"My name's Peter."

"I'm Jean." The spinning sensation slowed.

"Yes. I think everyone knows who you are."

"Thanks for your help, Peter." Checking her shoulder, she was relieved to discover her laptop case was still hanging on her arm. She patted the sides of her adamantium fiber jacket. "I better get to my class." She motioned in the direction of the Fermi Building.

"We're going to the same place. I'm headed there as well."

"Oh. Good." They started walking together. Jean knew she should be suspicious, but she was enjoying this strange young man's company. He radiated confidence and contentment; she imagined he'd had the most wonderful childhood and everything in his life was perfect. He made her feel safe.

"Were you working on an intense formulation back there?" he asked. "You appeared lost in thought."

Jean hesitated before responding. "This is going to sound really weird. I don't know what just happened to me. I was remembering a dream I had last night, it seemed so real… I guess I forgot about everything else."

"Well, what I saw was quite extraordinary. We don't have girls like you in the UK."

Jean halted; she faced Peter's gray eyes. She had to find out. Was she endangering thousands of people in her immediate vicinity?

"Did I catch fire?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "Catch fire? Like flames or something?"

"Yes. Did you see flames?"

"No... Should I be concerned about that sort of thing with you?"

"Probably." Jean moved towards the entrance of the Fermi Building.

He followed her. "That's remarkable."

Once inside, they were ushered into one of the waiting, human-operated elevators. Peter requested the conductor take them to the 12th floor, which was also Jean's destination.

"Are you in Professor Steiner's seminar?" She'd never seen him in class.

"I'm supposed to have been there for several minutes by now. Actually, I've already missed two weeks, so five, ten minutes…" The elevator doors parted. They hurried down the hall.

"Here's the room." Jean opened the door.

Jacob Steiner noticed their arrival. "If the Scharnhorst effect is quantifiable, are we still living in Einstein's universe?" He paused. "Please excuse me everyone, I believe Miss Grey has finally decided to join us this morning."

"I'm sorry I'm late," said Jean, meekly.

"I'm afraid it's my fault," Peter began, "I didn't know where the room was. Jean was kind enough to guide me…"

"How interesting." Steiner cut him off. "Class, meet Mr. Peter Wyngarde. He is an exchange student from Cambridge. And if he hadn't been personally recommended by my esteemed colleague, Professor Markowich, he would not be joining us today."

"Hello." Peter took a seat next to Jean.

"Let's return to my question. If Scharnhorst is right, must Einstein be wrong?"

"Not necessarily…" Jean answered.

"So, you actually did your homework? You've waltzed in here with proof, Miss Grey?"

"Um, Einstein relies on a procedure of clock synchronization based on photonic signals. So what if we synchronized the clocks in an alternative way? We could shift the frame of reference…"

"That's quite an original approach. We must all be witnessing the ramifications of Scharnhorst's experiments right now, class. Jean has obviously traveled faster than the speed of light and experienced the future. She's just said precisely what I was about to explain. Oh, wait a minute. Miss Grey, you're playing with the rest of us, aren't you? It's not fair to read your instructor's mind."

Jean stood up, her eyes flashing, "Professor Steiner, if I were going to use my telepathy I wouldn't need to spend a moment longer in this classroom. I could know all you know, learn every single thing you've ever thought, and suffer and celebrate every second of your life, in less time than it took me to say this. Don't presume to understand me. If you think I'm cheating, let's go to the Dean."

"Thank you, Miss Grey. You may sit down." Steiner narrowed his eyes at her.

Jean sank into her chair. Her consciousness was instantly racked by waves of fear and anger, some cresting at the peak of hatred, surging from Steiner and the other students. She had never felt such contempt. Their inner words grew louder, tearing through her psychic shield.

_Who the hell do you think you are?_

_You don't belong here! You should be locked up…_

For the first time in months, she wished Scott was with her. Back in May, when her ordinary classmates at Bayville High learned that she and the rest of the kids who lived at the Institute were mutants, Jean's life as the school's favorite female athlete and award-winning scholar came to an abrupt end. Unlike many others with the 'X' gene, she had always appeared normal. Being suddenly shunned and singled out during the last days of her senior year had come as a shock. She was the Student Council President and had been voted girls' soccer MVP, now none of that mattered. The general public considered her a dangerous abnormal creature.

She hadn't endured it by herself. Kitty, Evan, Rogue, and eventually Kurt, had been by her side. Yet no one had supported her more than Scott. Few regular people had ever accepted Summers; so he wasn't surprised to see non-mutant friends turning away. But he was outraged when Jean was viciously accused by her former teammates and Principal Kelly of secretly using her powers to win soccer matches and straight A's. Entering Scott's mind, Grey was touched. Though he didn't care what anyone outside the Xavier Institute thought of himself, he was infuriated by the treatment she was receiving. Scott's protective arm around her shoulders gave her strength as they walked through the hallways pelted by jeers and hisses. She wouldn't have made it without him.

Today she was alone, among a hostile group of normal humans who were ready to lock her up and throw away the key. A single voice cut through the chorus of condemnation:

_Jean, if only I could help you._

It was Peter Wyngarde.

She turned to look at him. He seemed amused. She was puzzled at first. Did he find her situation funny? Then his infectious smile spread to her own face. His thoughts sang in her brain.

_You are magnificent, Miss Grey._

_As are you, Mr. Wyngarde._


	25. Downpour

**Chapter 24 – Downpour**

She held her laughter. She worried she wouldn't be able to contain herself for the remaining fifteen minutes of the seminar. Every time she so much as glimpsed Peter's face, even peripherally, a crazy giddiness bubbled inside. Simply thinking of him made her giggle. They shared a hilarious secret – something none of the fools surrounding them, sitting like plants before the glare of Professor Steiner, could dream of.

_The universe is surreal and absurd._

Jean didn't know if the thought was hers or Wyngarde's; it arose in their minds simultaneously. As the concept broadened within her consciousness, she regained her composure. Her buoyancy settled into a general sense of warmth. She'd made a friend.

Steiner dismissed the class. The other students rushed out of the room.

"Do you have time for lunch?" asked Peter.

"I have an hour."

"There's a place called the Astral Diner on 113th and Broadway that supposedly won't poison us."

"All right."

Jacob Steiner was waiting for the elevator when Jean and Peter approached.

"I didn't mean to threaten you, Professor," she said, as the large brass doors opened.

"Let's start over next week." Steiner's voice was a little unsteady.

No one uttered another word during the descent. The physics professor's discomfort was palpable. As soon as the elevator reached the ground floor, Jacob Steiner briskly departed. Grey knew he couldn't wait to get away. At least Peter accepted her. Maybe her new acquaintance was all she would need…

While they walked towards the quad, she noticed the cottony tuffs that had dotted the sky throughout the morning hours had merged into a thick, leaden mass, which blocked out the sun. The heavy atmosphere threatened rain.

"Listen, Jean, there's someone I'd like you to meet." Peter slowed to a stop.

"Who?" asked Grey.

"My fiancée."

A petite young woman, with an olive green messenger bag hung across her chest, came up to them. Her almond shaped eyes cast a quizzical look.

"Nice to see you, old man. From all the chatter, I thought you'd run off," she remarked, turning from Peter to Jean, "with a certain mutant red head."

Peter stretched his arm around the dark haired girl. "Jean, this is Xi'an, my wife to be."

"Hi, Xi'an. Your old man just rescued me from academic suicide. I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Xi'an responded. "In fact, it's an honor. I've been bothering Peter with stories about the X-Men for months."

"The Astral Diner awaits us." Wyngarde was eager to go.

The swollen clouds began to release their burden. Big, sloppy raindrops splatted on their heads.

"We better run in the cafeteria," Xi'an recommended.

"There's no need," said Jean.

Xi'an and Peter realized they were no longer getting wet. Tilting their heads up, they watched dense droplets thump against an invisible barrier. On all sides, transparent walls protected them from sheets of falling water. Ten feet away, students and faculty scurried into nearby buildings or got soaked while struggling to unfurl their umbrellas.

"You're doing this!" Xi'an was practically jumping up and down with excitement.

"It's no big deal."

The three strolled four blocks south to the Astral Diner beneath Grey's telekinetic shield. Peter and Xi'an entered triumphantly, thrilled to walk in from a downpour entirely dry.

"Xi'an and I had breakfast here. It was amazing," Peter mentioned, while the girls moved into a booth with a view of storm swept Broadway. "The food came before we ordered it." He sat down next to Xi'an. "The waitress refilled my coffee even though I hadn't taken a sip. No respect for the laws of causality."

Their plates arrived almost as quickly as Wyngarde had described.

"This is why I came to New York," he exclaimed when a mound of steaming pastrami materialized in front of him.

"I thought you came here because of me." Xi'an knocked him, gently.

"You, and the pastrami…"

"And Professor Jacob Steiner," said Xi'an.

Jean discovered she was hungry. She couldn't tell whether it was the quality of her vegetable soup or the growing comfort she felt with the couple across the table that excited her taste buds.

"How did you two meet?" she asked.

"Oh, I was studying Pre-Christian Gnosticism at Cambridge last semester." Xi'an answered between bites of hamburger.

"And learning how to ride a bicycle," Peter added.

Xi'an pressed partially chewed burger to the side of her mouth with her tongue. "I knew howda ride!"

"Not very well. You were on the wrong side of the street." He looked at Jean. "We sort of collided." While still facing Grey, Wyngarde stealthily reached around his fiancée's shoulders and snatched a clump of her french fries.

"I just forgot…" Xi'an grabbed Peter's full hand of fries, suspending it halfway to his mouth. "Stop it! I was going to eat those! How am I ever going to gain three hundred pounds hanging out with a thief like you?" She turned her attention to Jean, "I'm sorry. I hope you understand we're dining with a ravenous beast over here."

Jean slapped her hand over her mouth as she rocked with laughter. Being with Peter and Xi'an had changed everything. They were so happy together. Watching them made life seem wonderful. Had she and Scott been like that? Maybe there hadn't been time. Too many crises had interrupted their relationship. They'd barely had a single day to relax and simply enjoy each other's company. Was that why Scott wouldn't give up? He just wanted the chance to be in love…

_Do l love anyone?_

Scott Summers disappeared from Jean's thoughts. The hot soup running down her throat couldn't melt the chills that suddenly riddled her body. She remembered feeling the wind from Angel's beating wings against her skin. "I'm not afraid of you," he whispered.

Warren was here, in the city. Was he waiting for her?

What would happen if the two of them were eating in this diner? Would the other patrons gawk and point? She made a cursory scan of the premises. No one was staring at her; the wait staff and the customers didn't care who she was, or what strange things she could do. Jean smiled, relishing her anonymity. Maybe New Yorkers wouldn't have a problem with two known mutants sharing a meal in a public place.

These people had their own lives to lead. Bits of their conversations and snippets of their inner monologues converged into a low level buzz punctuated by bursts of rain pinging off the windows. Then her senses detected a patch of interference. Someone was purposely blocking her perception. It was a young woman sitting with four fashionable companions in a large circular booth on the other side of the restaurant. Jean recognized the girl's platinum blond hair and stylish appearance from her dreams.

"Who's that?" Grey indicated the group across the room with her eyes.

"The blond? That's Emma Frost. She's quite the rock star on campus. Always in party photos in New York Magazine, hanging out with Candy Southern and a bunch of hideous rich people," answered Xi'an.

"She's a mutant." Jean watched Frost toss her head back in reaction to a comment made by one of the guys at her table.

"How can you tell?" Peter pushed away his nearly cleared plate of pastrami.

"She's blocking my telepathy."

"You mean you're reading our minds, and everyone else's, right now?" Xi'an sounded offended.

"No. I'm not probing people's thoughts. It's like listening with your ears. She's putting up a barrier proactively. It's weird. She's doing or thinking something she doesn't want me to know…"

"She's probably trying to hide her abilities. It's fascinating that it's precisely her attempt to obscure her powers that makes them obvious." Peter observed Miss Frost intently.

"Hey, speaking of New York Magazine, Jean, do you know him?" Xi'an pulled a glossy publication from her messenger bag and laid it on the Formica tabletop.

Warren was on the cover carrying a slender young woman in a flowing blue evening gown. His outstretched wings, lit by spotlights below, held the two of them aloft, several stories above the city streets. They gazed at each other. The headline printed underneath read, "My Date with The Angel: The Night a Mutant Saved My Life…By Candy Southern."

"No…" Jean didn't know she was speaking. The dizziness she'd experienced earlier returned.

"You've never run into him? This 'Angel' guy? But he's a mutant. It says he helped the X-Men take down Apocalypse." Xi'an opened the magazine to the featured article.

"We've met a few times. But I don't really know him."

"He's the heir to the Worthington fortune, and he lives in that beautiful art deco tower on 42nd and Fifth…" Xi'an continued.

Jean quickly ripped a ten dollar bill from her wallet. "I'm very sorry, but I have to leave." Her throat was tight, making it hard to speak.

Peter turned towards the window. "Wow. It really is rotten out there." Water pounded the glass. The cars and traffic signals beyond were reduced to wavy streaks of color.

"Guess you guys will have to find an umbrella somewhere." Jean wasn't going to crack. Not here, in front of all these people, and the blond telepath. She'd hold it in, until she was alone.

Wyngarde looked back at her. "Jean, do you think you could lend me your notes this weekend? For Steiner's last three classes?"

"Sure." Her voice was small. "I'm going upstate tomorrow, but I'll talk to you Sunday." Grey gathered her laptop case and hurried out of the restaurant.


	26. The Message

**Chapter 25 – The Message**

Bonita Alvarez gazed past the silhouette of her driver at the swollen river of glowing taillights that clogged the northbound side of FDR Drive. Through the undulating screen of rain, she watched bright red smudges sink into abstract eddies of grayish-blue. The melting colors reminded her of a painting by Monet she'd seen at the Metropolitan Museum. It was six thirty in the evening; usually she'd be on her way home to Astoria. But tonight she had a delivery to make.

She worked for the law partners of Cromwell, Ferris & Gould, one of the most prestigious firms on Wall Street. The legend she'd heard at the office was that old man Cromwell started the practice back in 1928 with a single client: Warren Worthington, the eccentric shipping and aeronautics tycoon. Currently, attending to the legal affairs of the Worthington Corporation and the Worthington Family constituted half the law firm's annual gross revenue of nearly thirty-eight billion dollars. Ten months earlier, in late December, senior partner Adam Gould had selected Bonita from the large pool of paralegals to act as courier between the firm and the family's single heir, a mysterious shut-in named Warren Worthington the Third.

"Viktor will let you in the building and show you where the executive elevator is. It'll stop at the sixtieth floor. When you get out you'll see some very large double doors. Toss everything through the mail slot and leave. Don't wait for a response." Mr. Gould had instructed her.

A few of the other legal assistants said the Worthington heir was deformed, hideously. The day after her first run, her colleagues wrung her for details. She disappointed them; she had little information to relate.

"I didn't see anything. But I heard the radio and I think he was also watching the news…"

Their interest faded quickly. The media was buzzing about multiple sightings of an angel in Manhattan. A disabled woman claimed an angelic young man had rescued her from a fire; a cop and an accountant said a guy with wings had prevented a mugging; and scores of people had witnessed a winged person pull a small child and her parents from a car before it plunged off the Brooklyn Bridge into the winter waters of the East River. With everyone consumed with wonder about a divine messenger in New York City, no one cared to ask any more questions about the strange, solitary resident of the Worthington Tower.

It was interesting to think about that time now. During the past week the world had learned that the supposed invalid isolated on the top story of the glittering skyscraper was, in fact, the elusive Angel. This visit to 500 Fifth Avenue was going to be different. The glamorous feature in New York Magazine had inspired her fellow employees to stroke her all day, begging to be informed the moment she left the Tower.

Bonita admonished them for asking. "I will keep all information about said client strictly confidential. So stop pestering me, I'm not going to tell you a thing."

There was only one person at the firm she was going to report anything to: Josh Gould, the remarkably young new associate, who also happened to be Adam Gould's son.

"Don't give this to Viktor, and don't just drop it through the slot. I need you to put these documents directly in Warren's hands, okay." With his right shoulder immobilized by his recent injury, Josh used his left arm to pass a sealed legal-sized envelope to Alvarez.

The river of taillights began to flow. She would be at the Worthington Tower in minutes.

Clusters of men standing in the rain with walkie-talkies motioned her limo towards the main entrance. Police barricades cordoned off a mob of people; many were soaked from being out in the storm. This was a major security operation. Viktor came up to the curb with an umbrella and escorted her out of the limousine into the lobby.

"Miss Alvarez, it is nice to see you. Mr. Worthington has had a very demanding week. Today, with the magazine article, things have been particularly difficult; and he has workers up there at the moment. So, you may give me what correspondence you have, I'll make sure he gets it."

"I'd like to, but I can't, Viktor. I was told to deliver this personally. I can't leave until I've seen him."

"An interesting development, Miss Alvarez. I will inform Mr. Worthington."

She proceeded down the hall to the executive elevator. She had always found the rapid rise to the top story disorienting. The panels inside gave no indication of the floors as they passed. There was only a single lit number – '60.'

Time seemed suspended during the ascent. Bonita touched her lips and realized she was smiling. After ten months, she was finally going to meet her secretive recipient. She recalled the picture on the magazine cover. Until six days ago, she'd imagined a poor soul hid in the dark whenever she arrived, shrinking from the sliver of light that filtered through the mail slot onto the floor within, lest it reveal his disfigurement.

As soon as she stepped into the corridor, she heard echoes from construction clangs and workmen's boots clomping in a vast space. She paused at the massive set of mahogany doors that led to Warren's apartment. The wood was exquisitely carved. Two stylized angels formed an arch over the threshold with their wings. The art deco figures looked similar enough to Ancient Egyptian imagery that on previous occasions she'd been spooked. Was she awakening a cursed creature from his tomb?

The brass-framed slot lay at the base on the right, between the feet of one of the angels. If she simply dropped the documents through the opening and went home, she would probably be able to justify her actions to Josh Gould. Mr. Worthington obviously did not want to be bothered. But Josh would never count on her again. He'd regret he ever trusted Bonita Alvarez to go out of her way to do her job.

She fingered the concave brass plate by the left side of the entrance and pressed the reddish-brown button that triggered the door chime. No one came. She waited. After taking a breath, she closed her eyes. The doors parted. She blinked at a slight young man with tan skin and black, wavy hair.

"Yes?" His face wasn't the one she'd expected, but she found it pleasant.

"Hi. I'm Bonita Alvarez. I have documents from the firm." He didn't back up to make room for her to enter. "I'm delivering important legal papers from Cromwell, Ferris & Gould, Mr. Worthington's lawyers…"

"I'm sorry. Please." The man withdrew and let her in.

"Thanks." She'd never been further than the corridor before. She was amazed by the size of the office – it reminded her of the main lobby of the Metropolitan. In the middle of the space, a series of platforms supported a temporary staircase that stretched beyond the cathedral ceiling through a large circular aperture. The construction was going on in an unseen upper chamber. The voices of the workers above reverberated below. "What's up there? An empty stadium?" she asked.

"It's um, kind of a staging area. We're adding a few improvements to the roof. My name's Varun Minar. I design stuff for Mr. Worthington."

Alvarez' sight darted from the scaffolding in search of her client. Fifty feet away a bank of monitors displayed multiple news channels; they were all showing photos or video of 'The Angel.' Then she saw him in the flesh. He was looking out the long windows in the southeast corner of the room while talking on the phone. Lightning from the storm outside illuminated his profile, flashing along the outlines of his wings.

"Why don't you let me take whatever it is?" Varun offered. "He's really busy…"

"No, thank you. Excuse me." Bonita started towards Warren.

"Candy, I do have the right to be upset. I know the story was out there, but I didn't expect you, my friend, someone I thought I could trust to write one!" His wings flinched. "Don't come over here… No, I mean it, Candy. I have to go." Noticing Bonita, he moved from the window and closed the phone. "You're from the firm?"

"Yes. I have something for you from Josh Gould. He said I had to place it directly in your hands." She presented the envelope.

"From Josh? He's working at the firm? Already?"

"He passed the bar in July. He's an associate," she answered.

Warren took the envelope. "What's your name?"

"Bonita Alvarez."

"You've been dropping off my mail for months, haven't you?"

"Yes. Since December. I was told not to disturb you."

"But Josh wanted you to be certain I'd get this."

"Those were his instructions," she replied. "I'll be going."

"Say hello for me." He returned to the windows, clutching the envelope.

Bonita raised her voice. "I think it's a good article."

"What?" Warren shifted his attention from the pelting rain back to Alvarez.

"The piece in New York Magazine – it explains who you are. There were a lot of strange stories going around." She crossed to leave.

"Mr. Worthington…" Viktor's voice crackled through the intercom system.

"Thanks for your opinion." Warren stepped backwards to answer the speaker on the wall. "Yeah, what's up, Viktor?"

"Miss Southern is here," Viktor replied.

"Great…" Warren observed Bonita's retreating figure. "Tell Candy she can come up."

On her way to the exit, Alvarez passed Varun, who was conferring with several workmen by the base of the construction rig. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Minar turning in her direction.

"Bye, Bonita," he said.

* * *

Warren pulled a silver letter opener from a drawer in his grandfather's old desk. The familiar family crest – an eagle atop a shield baring three swords – was engraved on the thick handle. He placed his thumb over the tiny Latin words "Semper Excelsius" stamped on the top of the shield as he sliced open the packet Bonita had delivered. Inside he found a legal document twenty pages thick with the words 'Last Will and Testament of Warren Worthington, Senior' printed at the top. There was a post-it note stuck to the first page. The short message read:

Warren,

I was digging around in the files and I found this. I think you'll find it interesting.

-Josh

Varun approached him. "They've finished the installation."

Warren looked up from a paragraph circled in red. "Let's try it."

They walked over to the towering framework that filled the opening for the stained glass skylight. Warren extended his wings and lifted himself thirty feet into the air with a single stroke. Minar crouched, covering his head with his hands, as the winged man sailed over him. The Angel slipped through the slender space between the scaffolding and the edges of the sixteen-foot wide hole into the massive zeppelin hanger. Varun scrambled up the makeshift steps.

Warren watched waves of water form wide ripples on the transparent roof. He tapped the back of his left wrist. Sheets of metal shot out from eight different directions converging centimeters below the center of the massive glass surface. The separate leaves meshed together seamlessly, like a camera shutter.

"This is quite impressive, Varun. What would happen if a helicopter was in the middle of it when it closed?"

The designer was still climbing stairs. "It would be sliced," he responded, breathing audibly. "The plates are synthesized adamantium reinforced steel, almost as strong as the pure stuff. They'll cut through practically anything."

"Really?" Warren hovered close to the underside of the metal ceiling; he inspected the material.

"You said you wanted something impenetrable." Minar rested on one of the higher platforms.

"How did you get a hold of adamantium reinforced steel?"

"I mentioned your name to someone at Worthington Labs..."

The tones of the doorbell interrupted them.

"That's gotta be Candy. You should go, Varun. The crew can come in tomorrow to dismantle the rig."

"Thanks. It's been a long day." Minar signaled to the men that it was time to leave and reversed direction.

Warren dropped a hundred and thirty feet, landing gently on the floor of the office. One of the exiting workers let Candy Southern inside. She was wearing a tight, tailored Ohne Titel silver raincoat and carrying a pink plastic bag.

"Thanks for letting me in." She strolled over to Warren.

"I shouldn't have," he said.

Candy tilted her head upwards. "Wow. What's going on here?"

"Just a few alterations."

Varun waved on his way out. "I'll see you tomorrow, Warren."

"Who's that?" asked Southern.

"His name's Varun. He's doing some work for me."

"So many people around… Do you mind if I put this down somewhere?" Candy held up the plastic bag.

Warren led her to the café table near the windows that ran along the south wall.

"I met Bonita from the firm on my way in. Cute girl, but they must not pay her enough. Horrible outfit. She looks like she just crawled out of Filene's Basement… Hey, where do you keep your champagne glasses?"

"Champagne? I should have guessed."

"We're celebrating!" Southern pulled a bottle of _Duverdier champagne from the bag and unwrapped the gold foil around the cork._

"You're celebrating." Warren turned away.

"I thought you'd be no fun." She opened a cabinet next to the small table and removed two champagne flutes.

"How did you know where to find those?" he asked, taking a step closer.

"Viktor told me." Southern expertly popped open the champagne; a wisp of vapor was all that escaped. "I was just made the youngest editor at New York Magazine."

"You exploited me for your article." Warren held up his hand when she offered him one of the glasses.

"You know, you may be able to soar into the sky and look down on all of us, but there are a lot of things you don't see."

"Such as?" Warren crossed his arms.

"Things your father, and the corporation he runs which bares your name, are involved in."

"What are you talking about?"

"Perhaps you remember, five months ago, a helicopter news team reporting traffic on the West Side came across a fifty-foot tall robot firing on a group of, how shall I say, extraordinary individuals?" Candy sipped her champagne.

"Of course I remember. What's your point?"

"Do you know who built that thing?"

"Bolivar Trask. He created the Sentinel robots to wipe out mutants, I know."

"But who gave him the money? And who provided the materials and the infrastructure for Trask's Sentinel Program?"

"Some secret government agency – maybe it was SHEILD."

"You might be right. In part. But according to public records at least, Mr. Trask left government service years ago. And I found out something else. How many cybernetic technology patents do you think Bolivar Trask has filed for Worthington Labs?" She paused. Thunder cracked outside. "Sixty-two. Thirty-four over the past twelve months."

"Candy, are you saying my father is responsible for the Sentinels?"

"The Worthington Corporation has been producing billions of dollars worth of military weapons for decades; and the Armed Forces contracts only account for one fifth of the company's annual budget for defense projects. There's an undisclosed fund of twenty billion dollars…"

Warren rubbed his right temple. He thought about the adamantium reinforced steel Minar had acquired and countless other examples of obvious ties between Worthington Labs and clandestine paramilitary activities. "I need some time to process all this. I can't say what you're telling me doesn't make any sense… But, what can I do about it?"

"Aren't you a major shareholder? You can demand disclosure. You can publicly condemn the company's involvement. Since Apocalypse threatened the world, Trask has been back in business. He's probably producing a more advanced fleet of Sentinels as we speak."

"I can talk to the board." Warren glanced at the document sitting on the desk nearby. "Josh sent me a copy of my grandfather's will today. I guess Dad didn't want me to know the particulars. It's totally crazy. Grandpa gave me half of the family's voting stock as of my twenty-first birthday. And he never even knew me. He was dead before I was born…"

Candy tightened the belt of her raincoat. "I know I've laid a load of heavy stuff on you, and actually, I have to run. I'm meeting Fiona at an Alison Blaireperformance at the Guggenheim in twenty minutes. But you can do so much. Use the press and your celebrity status; thousands of people out there believe in you. Fight your father's control of the company by influencing the shareholders, and work with others like you to give the public a positive image of mutants. Listen, my friend Emma Frost wants you to come to an event. Here." She handed him a crimson colored invitation. A circle with an 'H' and an upturned pitchfork was printed on the front.

"What is this?" He skimmed the text. "The Hellfire Club? They're holding a gala reception honoring Charles Xavier?"

"It's in two weeks." Southern checked the time on her cell phone.

"This is really strange. I think my father's a member. They're in that eighteenth century building downtown on Pearl Street. I thought it was a stuffy old society group."

"You and I are both hereditary members, and they have a history that goes way back, but Emma's trying to modernize the organization. She wants them to concentrate on advocacy for mutant rights."

"Dad won't like that. He'll probably resign from the club. Xavier and the X-Men will be there?"

"I believe so. Emma just told me she saw that telekinetic redhead up near the University campus. What's her name again? Jean Green…"

"Jean Grey."

"Well, Jean and several of the others are invited."

"I'll have to think about it."

"Warren, you can't hide anymore. There are dozens of politicians throughout the country right now running on anti-mutant platforms. There's this guy upstate who just won the primary for mayor of Bayville – Edward Kelly. He wants to ban mutants from public schools." She touched his right shoulder. It made his wings twitch. "Mutants like you are being threatened. You're a Worthington. You have to do something."

"Okay. I doubt Charles and Scott will be happy to see me, but I suppose if I'm a member they can't throw me out of my own club."

"Pick me up on my roof at 7:30." She pulled her hand back and drained her glass.

"That's all right, Viktor can drive us."

"It's a party for mutants, I might as well arrive like one. Plus you hate riding in cars." Candy kissed him on the cheek and left.


	27. Eye of the Storm

**Chapter 26 - Eye of the Storm**

A strong gale tore through Westchester County tossing waves over twenty-five feet high against the sheer face of the rocky, western edge of the Kensico Reservoir. On the eastern shore, things were different. Heavy rain perforated the surface of the water, but the winds were strangely calm. Six hundred feet above, the air currents slowed along the cliffs jutting out from the grounds of the Xavier Institute. Just beyond the terrace, within the warmly lit interior of the mansion, a woman looked out the rear windows on the first floor. Her eyes glowed white and her long braids swirled about her shoulders. A large, blue, ape-like creature came up behind her. It was Dr. McCoy.

"The local news says we've got eighty mile per hour winds. It looks pretty peaceful out there. Are you playing with the weather, Ororo?"

"I have respect for nature, Hank, I don't play with it," Ororo Munroe explained to the hulking shape reflected in the dark glass. "We can handle the precipitation. But after Cannonball knocked over that great old pine the day Warren was teaching, I swore I wouldn't let another tree go down. I'm only affecting the wind." As she turned from the window, her irises dimmed to deep amber. "What brings you out of the lab?"

"I received some interesting information from Alain Corbeau at Starcore. I can't say what it means exactly. I sent him the astrological data from the Eye of Ages codex. He thinks he's identified the star system it's talking about, which also happens to be the location of a recently discovered cosmic anomaly. Could be just a coincidence…"

"It's never just a coincidence." Her vision swept the foyer. "You didn't see Logan wandering around downstairs, did you?"

"No. Is he AWOL again?"

"We had a security meeting this evening. He didn't make it."

"That's not surprising."

"I was sure he'd changed, Hank." She showed him her back again, as she moved towards the doors to the terrace.

"I don't know why you thought that," he said, following her. "If there's a crisis, Logan might show up at the last minute; but we've never been able to depend on him."

"He stopped Apocalypse." Her eyes searched the exterior darkness.

"We all stopped Apocalypse."

"What do you mean?" Ororo clenched a fist against her chest. "I helped him…"

"He possessed you. You and Charles fought his control every second." Hank wanted to reach out and curl his long arms around her.

"Nice of you to say that. Would you take over Logan's watch? I've got to go out there. I think the storm cell's returning south, but I want to make sure." The Windrider glided through the glass doors onto the terrace.

McCoy joined her outside. Liquid bullets splattered his face. "Normally I'd advise against flying into thunder and lightning." He winced. "But you wouldn't listen to me anyway."

"I'll see you later." An opalescent brilliance clouded over her pupils while vortexes filled her cloak and spun her hair into a whirring twister. Hank watched her rise, staring through battering winds which raked his blue fur. Ororo's soaring form quickly vanished into the turbulent night sky.

* * *

"Moira, thank you for staying up to deliver these results." Charles Xavier smiled at the image of his old friend filling the digital screen on his desk.

"Charles, I must repeat, I don't know what will happen if she takes it." Dr. MacTaggert's speech was compressed by the technology; yet despite the tinny quality and the obvious note of concern, the sound of her lilting words warmed Xavier. Why hadn't he been more candid the day she left for Muir Island? Why hadn't he told her how much he needed her?

"I understand," Charles responded. "This is an option I wish we didn't even need to consider…"

Moira's eyebrows knotted. "The test subject I used experienced a radical decrease in dopamine and norepinephrine activity in the striatum. So it should weaken her telepathy, temporarily. But it's also possible she'll suffer from serious depression. And her psychoactive levels might increase overall to compensate for the drug. It could cause another surge, especially if she quits taking it abruptly."

"We'll only use it if we have to. A great deal is at stake right now… Hank is about to come in, do you have any other specific instructions for administering it, aside from the dosage tables?"

"The likelihood of an adverse reaction is much higher if you give her an injection. So don't, unless it's an emergency. If she takes the pills and the effects build gradually over several days she might be all right."

The handle of the door to the Professor's office rotated and McCoy, as predicted, entered.

"Hank's here." Xavier greeted Beast with a glance. "Moira, I'll let you know how the session goes."

"Hello Hank," Moira said through the speaker system. "Charles will fill you in on the M56 compound. I have to go. It's past two for me. And I'd like to get some sleep. Oh, one last thing, I wouldn't go blindly to that party."

"You mean the reception at the Hellfire Club?"

"I don't know much about it, Charles, but a friend from MI6 told me the place is a nest of vipers, Sebastian Shaw in particular."

"I'm aware of Mr. Shaw and his associates. We'll be careful."

"Moira! Don't you think it's time for bed?" called a male voice in the background.

"Who's that?" asked Charles, without thinking.

"That's Dr. Cassidy. He's a visiting scientist from Ireland. Good night, Charles, Hank. We'll talk tomorrow." Xavier's screen blacked out.

Professor X looked out the window to his left and watched a vein of lighting spark several miles away.

"Charles, what's going on?" Hank approached Xavier's desk.

The Professor turned to his indigo colleague. "Moira ran some new tests on M56." He noticed the blue hair framing McCoy's face was wet and matted. "I won't ask what happened to you."

"I was talking to Ororo. She left to track the storm. M56 is the telepathy inhibitor, right?"

"Yes. Have a seat." Xavier sensed McCoy's reluctance to sink into one of the plush, silk upholstered armchairs. Beast was concerned his wet fur would soil the material. "Hank, sit down for goodness sake."

McCoy seated himself, slowly. "You plan to use it on Jean?"

"I don't know. I don't want to. There are very significant risks. What we experienced together in Cerebro opened some sort of telepathic portal to some place or some thing I'm not even sure is real... But I felt a deep psychic connection between Jean and the story in the codex. I fear it's growing stronger. She'll be here tomorrow."

"Yes. Everyone knows. You're really worried about her. Why did you let her go back to school?"

"Because it's the only chance she has. Normal human experiences – going to classes, interacting with other students, living in the city - might prevent her from losing sight of who she is. The worst action we could take would be to lock her up here against her will. That would force her to defy us. Then she could lose control…and burn through us all." The rims of Xavier's eyes were red.

"Charles, I must tell you," McCoy began.

"Go on, Hank."

"I spoke with Dr. Corbeau at Starcore. He took a look at the celestial patterns from the codex. He believes they refer to a solar system seventy-seven light years away, circling the star we call Ankaa or Alpha Phoenicis."

"The Phoenix. Is he certain?"

"He's quite sure. Coincidentally, he's spent the past several months observing a phenomenon involving a much smaller, mysterious companion to Alpha Phoenicis. According to Starcore's spectral analysis, the companion is the compressed remains of a nearly identical class K sun. It must have once been a co-orbital twin."

"Alpha Phoenicis was part of a binary system…" Charles' focus shifted to his computer display. His eyebrows drew inward forming dark creases along the bridge of his nose. The screen brightened, revealing a series of hieratic symbols.

"An unexplained event," Hank went on, "which released a tremendous amount of energy, accelerated the rate of the companion's thermonuclear development. The pressure from the collapsing nuclei created a diamond center - it's almost as big as the moon."

"In the codex, Shi'mor, the falcon of fire, consumes her heavenly sister, M'Kraan, leaving a smattering of ash surrounding a solitary crystal." Xavier scanned the translation he'd finished an hour before. "A later part of the text calls the crystal 'a source of unlimited power.'"

"Well, something exotic is powering it. Corbeau's team has been tracking the position of the companion. It now appears to be on an altered trajectory. It's no longer orbiting Alpha Phoenicis; in fact, it's leaving the system. And the phenomenal thing is it's moving faster than the speed of light."

* * *

The dim fluorescent cylinder hanging above the pool table in the back of Sal's flickered. Tony Mazzotti watched Logan draw back his cue. But Wolverine didn't take the shot. Instead, he grabbed a small blue cube and chalked the tip. Then he stood, holding the stick, and stared at the green baize fabric.

He was acting weird, Tony thought. Usually Logan fluidly pocketed ball after ball. He seemed to lose himself in the game and would only come out of it to order a beer periodically. Something big must be bothering him. A booming thunder crack instantly pulled Mazzotti's attention to the front of the bar. Pebble-sized hail peppered the plate glass window. The sound made Tony think of machine gun fire. Turning to Logan, his sole customer, he couldn't detect the slightest awareness of the ferocious storm that was roaring outside. Wolverine remained standing by the pool table, his eyes fixed on the center of the green material, as if answers could be found there. Then he looked up. He returned the cue to the wall rack and walked over to the bar.

"Another beer?" Tony asked.

"Something stronger. I gotta get someone out of my head. Beer ain't doing it tonight."

"Bourbon always worked for me." Tony poured gold-red liquor into a shot glass.

"All right." Logan grabbed the drink with his rough fingers and raised it to his lips. "I'll have four more."

"You're going to be okay on that Harley afterwards?"

"Twenty minutes. I'll be fine." Logan methodically downed two more shots. He was on his fourth when things outside changed dramatically.

Tony had never seen anything like it. The sheets of rain and hail slamming against the windows suddenly dissipated. But the storm continued to rage along the docks thirty feet away.

"That's some crazy weather," he said, pouring a shot of bourbon for himself. "It stopped raining here but across the street it's still going strong…"

"That ain't the weather." The muscles in Logan's face tensed.

A bolt of lightning lit up the block as a figure descended from above. Gusting winds blew open the door to the bar. A woman wearing a long billowing cloak entered. Her glowing white irises softened to brown while her whirling braids came to rest on her shoulders.

"You picked the wrong time to walk in here, 'Ro," said Logan.

"Why is that?" She came closer, into the lamplight; Tony was amazed by the sheen of her copper skin. "Because you're drunk?" she asked. This lady did not look human. She was like a bronze statue that had been brought to life.

"Yeah." Logan gulped his last shot. "Come back in fifteen minutes."

"Why? What are you going to do?"

"Say stuff you don't want to hear."

Tony felt the hairs on his arms bristle in the charged air. The woman sat down next to Wolverine.

"I'll have whatever you gave him," she requested. Tony nodded, dumbly. His hands shook while he filled a glass.

"This is a bad idea. I only drink alone." Logan motioned for Tony to pour him another as well.

"What are you afraid of?" She lifted her bourbon and tossed it down her throat.

"Talking to you." He watched her swallow. "How'd you know how to find me?"

"I've tracked you here before. I saw your bike."

"What do you want, 'Ro?"

"I don't want anything. I just want to know when I schedule a meeting and you agree to attend, that in fact you'll be there. It's not that much to ask."

"Right now, it's asking a hell of a lot." The last swig of fire had done the trick. Logan appeared to be intoxicated.

"Why is that?" She leaned in.

"I had to leave."

"When are you planning on returning?"

"I'm not going back tonight. Or tomorrow." Wolverine studied the floor.

"Jean's going to be at the mansion tomorrow. Are you trying to avoid her?"

"Don't ask me that." He met her gaze.

"Is there something between you?"

"She goddamned kissed me." He looked down again. "The kid lifted me into the air… I stopped it."

"She kissed you?" The woman's dark eyes began to lighten.

"Yeah, and now I can't think about anything else. She messed with me. Damn telepath." He tilted his head up and moved closer. "But you could make me forget…" He grasped her elbow which had been resting on the bar. "What do you say, 'Ro?"

Her braids rose. "Don't flatter yourself, Logan."

A searing flash blinded Tony. He smelled smoke.

"God Dammit! Not fair, 'Ro." Wolverine seethed. He sounded like he was in pain.

A massive gust shook the glasses above the bar and violently threw peanut bowls, cocktail napkins and plastic stirrers in every direction. Tony's sight returned as the door to the street was torn from its hinges. Water and hail flooded inside as the white haired woman disappeared into the storm.


	28. Revelations

**Chapter 27 – Revelations**

Jean watched the rows of headstones in Woodlawn Cemetery go by through the thick glass of the Metro North train to Bayville. As promised, she was on her way to the Institute to meet with the Professor. She increased the volume of the music she was listening to and pressed her headphones hard against her ears. She wanted the mechanical beats and undulating chords to inundate her senses and dissolve the terrifying visions projected by her memory. She was actually relieved she was going to the mansion. She didn't think she could handle another nightmare like the one she'd awoken from that morning.

In the dream, she'd been alone, adrift in a cold, fathomless void. Then she caught the flickering image of an unknown woman. The lady was tall and proud, like a queen. An elaborate headdress of midnight blue feathers framed her strange but beautiful face. It was her eyes that were so different; they were mesmerizing. Larger and darker than Xavier's, they contained spiraling galaxies and scintillating nebulae.

Jean watched as the spinning star clusters expanded and the regal woman faded into nothingness. Suddenly, Grey was pummeled by a debris field of thousands of frozen meteoroids. She felt shaken. Then she raised her sights beyond the shower of ice and gazed at a yellow sun as it cycled into view. Gas giants whipped by. After passing through a mesh of rocky asteroids, her heart warmed. A cherished blue globe emerged.

Swirling clouds swept across the planet, dissipating over wide stretches of deep azure seas. Billions of creatures lived below; she felt them growing, breeding, killing, and dying. The moon advanced in her direction. Soon it cast its shadow upon the familiar eastern coastline of one of the northern continents, momentarily eclipsing the rays of the sun for those on the surface.

The moon continued its orbit and swiftly curved halfway around the Earth. Jean was studying its plains and craters when she realized its rotation had stalled. She returned her attention to the larger body below and beheld a non-revolving, static world. Had time stopped? The shifting sands of the deserts, the flowing oceans, and the swaying forests were still.

An instant later, she perceived a sound unlike anything she'd ever heard. At first it seemed to be a chorus of high pitched voices singing backwards. Grey looked for the source. An immense glittering sphere shot out of the blackness. Its dimensions appeared to nearly equal the distant moon. Millions of facets cut into the enormous crystalline object refracted the sun's brilliance. The notes the massive object produced multiplied and varied, merging and diverging into cascades of harmony and dissonance as the radiance within it intensified. Quickly, the disparate tones funneled into a single progression and reached a deafening volume. Light poured from the diamond sphere. Jean knew the escalating sequences were building to a great and terrible resolution.

A hideous shriek pierced her eardrums. Concentric ripples of pain rent her consciousness. An apocalyptic explosion set the planet's atmosphere on fire. The world beneath her was engulfed in flames.

* * *

The loudspeakers announced "Wakefield!" dispelling the terrifying scenes from her dream. _Stay calm_, Jean told herself.

She leaned back in her seat and tried to take comfort in the regular strokes of the wheels running along the rails. The patter of thoughts streaming from the other passengers began to buzz in her mind.

She glanced at the man across the aisle. He had the latest issue of Newsweek. On the cover several crumpled F-35 fighter jets circled a levitating Magneto. Large letters superimposed on the image read, "The Mutant Question: Can We Stop Them?" The man abruptly looked up from his magazine. His eyes flashed with recognition; the article contained her picture. His mouth formed a hard, thin line as his unspoken words echoed in her head.

_Unnatural… Freak…_

Jean turned back to the window. Practically plastering her face to the glass, she tried her best to ignore him and everyone else. The slight chatter had grown into a barrage of itemized insecurities, injustices, and shopping agendas. Why couldn't she block her telepathy? Was she losing control? She was about to scream. _Shut up!_

She heard the train's hydraulic breaks kick in. They had arrived at Scarsdale. Half the car emptied, including the man across the aisle. The people who remained were several seats behind, thinking innocuous things. She relaxed; in eighteen minutes she'd be getting off.

Jean stepped down from the train. The Institute was only three miles away. Sensing her proximity to the Professor, she strolled briskly through the station. Near the exit she glimpsed a copy of the Bayville News someone had left on one of the benches. The front page headline was: "Anti-Mutant Crusader Edward Kelly 30 Points Ahead in Race for Mayor."

Outside, blinking in the afternoon sunlight, she could still see the newspaper in her mind. She put on her sunglasses and searched for her ride. The other people waiting wore puffy winter jackets with hats and gloves. Crossing her bare arms, Jean wished she'd worn a sweater underneath her adamantium fiber vest. Not because she was chilled; she wasn't, even though the temperature had dipped below forty-five degrees – quite rare for late September. She felt exposed.

A red Austin-Healey Mark IV coup convertible with dual white stripes entered the parking lot. She knew who was driving long before the car pulled up to the curb. It was Scott, and he was alone.

"I'm sure you'd prefer to have Logan pick you up, but no one knows where he is." Scott watched her get in. "Have any ideas?"

"No." She fastened her seatbelt and avoided looking at him.

"Don't you have a coat? It's cold." He was wearing a short wool blazer.

"I'm fine. I've got this thing on," she said, referring to the vest.

"I could put up the hood."

"I'm fine." The coup made a left turn onto Route 22.

"Did you see that article about Warren in New York Magazine?"

"I saw it," she answered flatly. Was Scott was determined to upset her?

"They're going out, right? Angel and that reporter, Candy whatever..." His casual delivery seemed strained.

"How would I know? I barely leave campus. All I do is go to class, study and sleep, okay?" Grey noticed 'Kelly for Mayor' signs in the windows of the shops in the strip malls along the road. She unbuckled her seatbelt.

"What are you doing?" asked Summers, raising his voice to compensate for the wind from the highway.

Jean released the straps binding her chest and unzipped the adamantium-laced jacket. "I'm hot." She tossed it in the back.

"That's smart," Scott commented, acidly.

Jean said nothing and kept her sight fixed on the road. Their conversation continued in Summers' mind.

_Why won't you talk to me?_

"What do you want to talk about, Scott?" Jean sounded annoyed, almost exasperated.

"Nothing! Since we don't have anything to say to each other anymore." _So get out of my head!_

"Sorry…I can't turn it off."

"Neither can I, Jean." His jaw tightened. _I wish I could erase every moment we ever spent together._

The light at the intersection of Route 22 and Hillandale Avenue turned red. The Austin-Healey convertible came to a halt behind a cargo van. A Cadillac Escalade SUV stopped beside them. The man and woman in the front appeared to be arguing. Two children in the rear section ogled a video screen. Jean took off her sunglasses and faced Scott.

_I never meant to hurt you. I care about you…_

The glare of the sinking sun bounced off Cyclops' ruby lenses as he turned to face her. "Not like you care about Warren. Or is it Logan you're after these days?"

Lines of burning gold pulsed within her irises. "You don't understand. You don't have a clue what I'm going through!" Her long red hair lifted from her shoulders. A fiery aura surrounded her as she rose out of the car. "I can't be with anyone!"

The children in the SUV were staring at her. The man began pounding the horn desperately. He opened his window and shouted at the sedan ahead. "We got a f**king mutant situation back here! You gotta move it!"

Scott grabbed her left foot before she sailed beyond his reach. "Don't fly away! Talk to me!"

Jean looked down. Her vision penetrated the ruby quartz. Gazing into his glowing red eyes, she heard his thoughts.

_Fight it, Jean. Fight this thing!_

_Fight myself? This is what I am._

_I know you better than anyone ever has or ever will. This isn't you!_

Refocusing on the surface of his glasses, Jean realized the blazing figure they reflected was herself. The kids in the SUV started to cry. Waves of panic rushed at her from all directions. A tractor-trailer approaching from the south spun into a reckless u-turn and hit a car speeding away in the opposite lane.

Scott wasn't releasing his grip. Did he want to see his hands reduced to charred stumps?

_Let Me Go!_

Grey telekinetically peeled his clutching fingers from her ankle.

"Listen to me!" he yelled.

The shrill whine of police sirens combined with the beating whir of incoming choppers announced the imminent arrival of the law. What was happening? Her brain was going to explode…

_Stop It!_

"Jea…" Scott's mouth froze mid-syllable.

The honking ceased and the screaming patrol cars went silent. Everything had stopped. The traffic lights were dark except for a single shining green diode. Soaring into the sky, Grey surveyed the horizon. Two police helicopters half a mile away hung in mid-air, like ornaments. A flock of Canada Geese were suspended above the vastness of the Kensico Lake Preserve. The clouds resembled static brushstrokes and even the sun had become a solid, motionless ball. Now she felt cold. A chorus of strange high frequency tones sounded in the distance.

_No, it can't be… _

Jean flinched; the noise was steadily getting louder.

_Oh god…_


	29. The Awakening

**Chapter 28 - The Awakening**

_Professor…_

Could he sense her? Jean wondered, closing in on the mansion. After gliding past a stationary kestrel in mid-dive, she slowed just outside Xavier's office. He was frozen at his desk on the other side of the glass casement, eyes closed in concentration, with his index and middle fingers pressed against his temples.

Maybe he was trying to reach her. The terrifying celestial music was building to a crescendo. Grey shivered as she recalled the scream that had ignited the sky in her nightmare. She would do anything not to hear that again.

_Professor, please…_

Looking at her hands, she saw they glowed like burning embers; yet she felt made of ice. She was alone in this chilling non-time, isolated from the living world. The sonic vibrations began to shift the mansion. She had to contact Charles; he could stop it. She parted the large panes that separated them with her thoughts, but didn't go inside for fear of setting the Institute ablaze. She touched Xavier with her mind.

_Help me!_

She lifted his body out of his chair and pulled him up through the window. His eyes were still shut as she turned him to face her. She wrenched them open.

"Jean!" Xavier shouted. His suspended limbs trembled.

_You must stop it! Stop the Crystal!_

The flames surrounding her shone in Charles' mirror-like black irises. His shaking ceased.

_Together, Jean. We must work together._

He stretched out his arms to take hold of her flaming fingers. She held him back telekinetically.

_What are you doing? I'll burn you!_

_Your hands will become my hands. Our minds must join._

The cataclysmic shriek she dreaded shattered the air, rippling Charles' skin.

_Jean, now! It's the only way._

_I understand._

He reached for her again. The flames licked his flesh and singed the cuffs of his tweed jacket. As he tightened his grip, his words reverberated.

_You will see everything, all that I know, and all that I am. And I will see you._

* * *

The smell of suntan lotion floated on a summer breeze. Jean was running. But she couldn't run that fast. She was small, just a child.

_Annie!_

She was racing Annie Richards across the street. Rose-orange sunlight glinted in the headlights of a large, black car. Suddenly the world became a wall of red. The back of her head smacked against the smooth surface of the road. She couldn't breathe. People were crying and shouting. She wanted to cough but her lungs were too heavy. The blood cleared from her sight, letting her gaze at the gold and scarlet clouds above.

_You've been hiding this… I was the one who died, not Annie. I'm supposed to be dead._

_No, Jean, but you were with her. You felt it. You brought me to this moment before, when our minds first merged. Why are we here now?_

_I don't know._

Icy nothingness was closing in around her. An ambulance siren in the background grew faint. She stared past the crowding human shapes into the sunset beyond. The burning colors formed the image of a giant falcon. Fiery wings swept down from the heavens. The warm flames gathered her crushed ten-year-old body.

_Phoenix… Was I always Phoenix?_

_You are Jean Grey. This is the Phoenix._

She was drifting tens of thousands of feet above the Earth. A massive white hot eruption roiled the horizon. Below great rivers of fire issued from the epicenter of the blast and consumed the land. Dropping down into the lower atmosphere, she choked amid thick smoke and noxious vapors.

Then the ash and smog dispersed to reveal the devastated landscape the flames had left behind. The cliffs to the east of the Kensico Reservoir were scorched. Burnt stumps were all that remained of the glorious pine, oak and maple trees. Where the Institute had stood there was a smoldering pit.

She let the wind carry her along, as if she were a stray leaf. Passing over Westchester County she witnessed hunks of misshapen metal steaming on the butchered highways. Further south, a wasteland pocked with melted steel skeletons filled her vision. It had once been the towering metropolis of New York City.

_I will cause this. You saw it when you were linked with Apocalypse. That day, when we got back from Egypt, why did you send Warren after me? Why didn't you let me go?_

_Because I love you, Jean. And I don't believe in fate. We can change the future. There was also a voice I'd never heard before. It said you were our only hope… Shi'mor…Nos Immorata…_

Charles' last words sounded strange. They were slightly higher in pitch but deeper in tone.

_Shi'mor Nos Immorata…_

Jean realized she was no longer holding the hands of the Professor. The palms she pressed felt cool like marble. The eyes in front of her were dark pools, shimmering with stars. It was the queen with the crown of blue feathers. She spoke without moving her mouth.

_You are Shi'mor…the Phoenix, Nos Immorata. D'ken has awakened. He calls the M'Kraan._

The ear-splitting screech resurged full force, tearing through Jean's consciousness.

_The M'Kraan…the Crystal! Stop it!_

_Only you can do that, Jean._

The Professor reemerged, replacing the mysterious woman. Charles was burning; yet his voice was calm.

_You are creating this reality. This is a psychic projection. The Crystal isn't here, Jean. Inside my office, there is a syringe on the desk. You have to inject its contents into your bloodstream. It will make all of this go away…_

* * *

Jean woke up in her old room on the second floor of the mansion. The rising sun poked through the curtains. Pushing off the covers she found she was wearing a faded t-shirt and leggings – her typical sleepwear. Who had changed her clothes? Where was the Professor? She couldn't sense him at all. She couldn't sense anyone.

She remembered the injection. The crook of her right arm was sore and thoroughly bruised. Her head ached. Rubbing the back of her skull she detected a large bump. She must have fallen when she was outside with Xavier. He would have gone down as well, and his skin… How badly had she burned him?

She jumped to her feet and rushed out into the hall. Ororo Munroe was coming up the stairs.

"Jean, I was just coming to check on you. Are you all right?"

"Ororo, what did I do?" Jean collapsed against Storm. The Windrider held her.

"The Professor will be okay. You should rest."

Jean backed away. "I know he's hurt. Please let me see him."

"He's in the recovery bay with Hank. I'll go with you."

They hastened down the steps and over to the high speed transport. The computer recognized Ororo's speech when she requested "Sub Level 1."

Jean's breathing was shallow and rushed. Storm couldn't recall Grey ever appearing so distressed. How would the girl react when she saw Charles' true condition?

Hank McCoy noticed them on the corridor monitor as soon as they arrived on the floor. He turned to the bandaged patient in the hospital bed behind him.

"Charles, Ororo has returned and Jean is with her."

"Let them in."

Jean ran into the room. The Professor was propped up on several pillows but he seemed rigid and uncomfortable. His arms lay by his sides encased in regenerative liquid packs. One of his legs had a support beneath it, and she could discern a large brace from the lumpy outline of the sheet on top.

The most difficult area to look at was his face. His eyebrows had been singed off and his ears and scalp were wrapped in gauze. Raw patches of pink spread over his cheeks. He smiled at her with blistered lips.

Jean fell to her knees. "Professor, I…" Her chest shuddered. "I wish I was dead!"

Storm bent down next to her. "You never meant to hurt anyone. And the Professor is improving every minute."

"Ororo, Hank," Xavier rasped. "I'd like some time with Jean."

Storm arose.

"If you need us, you know where we'll be." Hank followed Munroe into the hallway.

"Jean, get me something to drink, would you?" Charles tried to lean back.

Across the room a pitcher lifted into the air and poured a stream of water into a plastic cup. Jean walked to the chair near Xavier and sat down. The container, topped with a straw, flew into her hand. She brought it to his mouth.

"I was hoping you would sleep in for a few more hours," he said after a sip. "I'll be far more attractive by lunchtime. The new healing factor Hank synthesized from Logan's DNA is remarkable. It knits bone fractures, grows skin, amazing. If it could rebuild a damaged spinal cord, I'd be out jogging right now."

"You have to let me go." Ruddy tearstains marked Jean's face.

"You cannot leave us." The plastic cup sailed away and regrouped with the pitcher on the countertop in the opposite corner. "We need you."

"You need me to blow up the world?"

"To save the world, Jean. That's Lilandra's message. Apocalypse unveiled one possibility; the codex has shown us another."

"But I didn't simply receive a message, or project a psychic communication. It was real. The flames were real… You're hurt." A tissue puffed out of the box on the table to the Professor's left and flitted into her grasp.

"Jean, your psionic projections have the potential to become very real. Moira has developed a new compound…"

"M56. It was the substance in the syringe."

"Yes. It was my last option." Charles marveled at how pretty she was, despite the blotches and the harsh lighting of the medical unit. "It prevents extreme monoamine neurotransmitter fluctuations."

"I get it. It can impair telepathy, and maybe end the dreams I've been having." Jean's focus wandered to the ceiling.

"The decision is yours. The drug is highly experimental of course. To maintain the effects you will have to take a pill every twelve hours, if not more frequently." _Since it seems your powers have rebounded quite rapidly._

_But, it's just another tether._

_That's the point, Jean. You must stay tied to the ground. Keep your feet and your thoughts on Earth._

"What about astrophysics?"

"We'll allow an exception for astrophysics."

"I'll take the pills." Jean stood and moved towards the door.

"Hank will give them to you." Xavier followed her with his eyes. "I believe Scott is available to drive you back to the city."

* * *

Scott attached the hood of the Austin-Healey and waited in the driver's seat for Jean. He brought up the music on the stereo. She came out wearing a light pink sweater and an old pair of black pants he hadn't seen her wear for at least a year. They looked really good on her. _Don't stare_, he instructed himself.

When she got in he didn't say a word. She reached into the rear seats, retrieved the adamantium fiber vest, and pulled it on. Once she fastened her seatbelt, he shifted into first gear and drove off.

Neither of them spoke throughout the trip to Manhattan. Scott knew conversation was not what Jean needed. She needed time and space to think.

The car stopped on Morningside Drive. Jean grabbed the handle to leave, but released it. "Scott, tell me, what happened? What did you see?"

He turned slowly. "We were at the traffic light and I guess I said the wrong thing… You started levitating and lit up. Then you were gone."

"You were holding my leg."

"Until you pushed me off."

"Can I see your hands?"

Scott presented his palms. "Here." They were fine, no signs of contact with fire.

"I didn't burn you?"

"Not at all." He pulled away.

"Well, I better go." She opened the door.

"Jean?"

"Yeah?" she answered, leaning into the vehicle.

"This came for you." He passed her a crimson invitation with an 'H' and a pitchfork in a circle.

"What is the Hellfire Club?" she asked.

"It's some ancient society group down near Wall Street. They're having a big party for the Professor."

Jean read the names 'Mister Sebastian Shaw' and 'Miss Emma Frost' on the inside of the card. "Emma Frost, she's a telepath."

"The Professor mentioned that. It might be an interesting evening. So, if you're feeling better…"

"I don't think it'd be a good idea."

"Keep it, in case you change your mind."

"All right." Jean smiled at him. Scott watched her walk into Hamilton Hall.


	30. Mount Verloren

**Chapter 29 – Mount Verloren**

Josh Gould felt slightly less anxious when he exited the elevator onto the sixtieth floor of the Worthington Tower than he had during the ascent. He recalled Candy telling him to prepare to be shocked by the changes to the former executive suite. But the corridor appeared no different from what he remembered from occasional visits when he and Warren were in school together. The lack of windows was comforting, since he disliked reminders that he was in the upper section of a skyscraper looming over eight hundred feet above the streets of Manhattan.

He studied the Egyptian angels carved into the giant mahogany doors while pressing the rust-colored button that rang the chime. A slim, elegant, middle-aged man with a measuring tape draped around his neck answered. Josh recognized him - one of Warren's tailors, Flitcroft or Thwaite. The last time he encountered them he was fourteen.

"Well, you've grown a little, Mr. Gould," said the man, beckoning him inside.

Josh clutched the handle of his briefcase with his left hand. His right forearm, sheathed in a sling, tensed. "Whoa…" He almost fainted taking in the huge space. He guessed the ceiling peaked at thirty feet. He was ringed by large panes of glass. It was like being in free fall in the middle of Midtown.

"Josh!" Warren's voice came from across the room.

Gould regained his composure and tried his best to stroll casually towards the tall, winged figure. "Hey," he said, as he approached.

"Thanks for stopping by on a Sunday." Warren stood by his desk with the other clothier. Perhaps this one was Thwaite. Swatches of fabric were laid out for perusal.

"No problem. Uh, could we pull down some shades?"

"Sure." Warren touched his wristband and the bright sunny view of the city dimmed; the interior illumination increased to compensate.

"But, Mr. Worthington, you can only judge the true colors of these silks in daylight." The partner who had let Josh in was somewhat annoyed.

"It's okay. I've already made my choice. I like the gray with the white pinstripes."

"Exquisite material." The man next to the desk began collecting the samples and turned to the one with the tape measure. "Chum, have you finished your measurements?"

"Yes, Sinclair, I believe we are complete." The tailors briskly gathered the rest of their paraphernalia. "Until our Wednesday fitting, Mr. Worthington," Chum called back as the two swept into the hallway.

"Sorry, too many windows," Josh explained. "I'd actually gotten a lot better about my acrophobia, and then the crane collapse happened…"

"It's fine. We were done. How's your collar bone?"

"Oh, it's coming along really well. My doctor told me even though this type of fracture normally takes two months to heal, I can toss this sling tomorrow. You know it's only been a week. It must be the blood you donated."

"I wish Mr. Heifitz had accepted my help."

"Warren, he's doing fine. He wouldn't be breathing if it weren't for you." Josh searched for a place to settle. His eyes darted quickly to avoid registering the darkened but still semi-translucent panels.

"Let's go to the hanger," Warren suggested. "You'll prefer it up there. The walls are solid – no glass, except for the roof."

"Hanger? What are you talking about?"

"I always wondered what was in between the view through these windows and the top of the Tower. Why was the roof so much higher? It turns out my grandfather originally designed this building to launch airships. I discovered this enormous hanger. It was the same night I found her." Warren moved to the center of the office and gazed at the girl in the skylight.

"Wow," said Josh, joining Worthington beneath the multicolored angel. "You found this?"

"Yeah. My dad put in that drop ceiling to hide it."

"You're going to be amazed by what I have to show you." Josh held up his briefcase.

"Great. But let's check out the hanger first." Warren pointed to the intercom receiver in the corner.

Josh nodded. "Let's go." Warren took the briefcase in his right hand. The iridescent seraph slid aside revealing a massive sunlit area beyond. Angel extended his wings and reached around Josh's waist from the left. "What are you doing?" asked Gould.

"Showing you the upstairs. Hold on to my neck."

"Wait…" A loud whoosh cut off Josh's protest. A second later he was in a vast hull-like chamber with walls that stretched higher than thirty meters. He fell backwards, landing on a white couch. Warren perched on a stool next to a counter which supported an ultra-thin laptop. The briefcase lay by Josh's feet.

"So, what have you got?" Warren's sky blue irises were piercing.

Josh opened the leather valise. "Are we in this space because you don't trust Viktor?"

"I have no idea how much he tells my parents and I haven't replaced the old intercom system down there; he can listen in whenever he wants to. He may have been monitoring the conversation Candy and I had on Friday. No one else can hear us here."

"You sound kind of paranoid." Gould flipped through the contents of the briefcase.

"Wouldn't you be paranoid?"

"You have to trust someone, Warren."

"I trust you. The will you sent me, could it withstand a court challenge?"

"Yes. Your grandfather covered all the bases." Josh presented a thick document. "First, he had the district attorney and a former federal prosecutor as witnesses. Second, Cromwell, Ferris and my dad scrutinized the language and directed the whole procedure so those aspects are flawless. And most importantly, your father and your uncle signed this."

Warren received the papers. "I have an uncle?"

"His name is Burtram, or 'Burt' Worthington. No one has seen him for more than twenty years. Every month the firm sends a check for fifty thousand dollars to a post office in Corfu." Gould waited while Warren scanned the words.

"Could you explain this part? 'Conditional upon existence of an heir…'"

"I'm quite certain your grandfather was worried he wouldn't have any grandchildren. Uncle Burt was in his late thirties and single. Your dad was forty at the time. Probably he'd just married your mom; anyway, he didn't have any kids yet. So the old man made his sons agree that whoever produced the first descendant would get control of the entire estate, as well as the voting stock for the corporation. The following paragraph says, like it does in the will, that fifty percent of the shares plus half the value of the personal fortune must be maintained for the future child, or children. When you turned twenty-one this past May, you became entitled to your inheritance."

Warren left the stool and walked several feet away. He tilted his head to contemplate the clouds passing over the glass rooftop. Half a minute passed; he circled to face Josh. "This isn't a joke?"

"No joke."

"A guy named Giles Tareyton called me earlier today. He said he was Dad's new executive assistant. Have you heard anything about him at the firm?"

"He supposedly came out of nowhere. Some sort of wunderkind. I hate people like that – young overachievers."

"Uh huh." Warren's stern expression broke into a slight smile, which faded rapidly. "I was informed my father will be in town in two weeks, and I'm required to join him Sunday after next for breakfast at Falkenmore. I bet he'll give me an ultimatum."

"You think he's going to try to force you into having surgery?"

"Maybe, or if I luck out, I'll be allowed to join my uncle in Corfu."

"Why don't we surprise your dad? He's actually arriving that Saturday afternoon for a meeting of the board of directors at the Corporate Center on the Circle…"

"You want to crash the conference room?"

"I'll back you up, Warren. I'll bring all the documents. He won't be able to deny us a seat at the table. Might give you some leverage."

Angel sat down on the other end of the couch. "It's going to be the worst weekend of my life."

Josh shifted to make way for Warren's right wing. "It doesn't have to be."

"I agreed to go to this event at the Hellfire Club with Candy; it's the Friday before."

"The mutant rights thing?"

"Yeah."

"You should go. Don't stay out late though. We're going to deal with one of the most powerful businessmen in the world on Saturday."

Warren looked directly at his friend. "Josh, did you help Candy get that information on Worthington Labs' cybernetic patents and defense contracts?"

Gould's eyes stayed fixed on Warren's. "Yes."

"That's what I thought. I'm asking because I need to know how much stuff you share with her, generally." Worthington's azure irises had an icy quality.

"From now on, I'll disclose nothing which concerns you to the slightest degree," Josh responded.

"You're okay with that?"

"Warren, I'm your attorney. I won't betray your confidence. But Candy really loves you. She always has and she's on our side."

Angel returned to the laptop on the counter. "There's something more I want to talk about. Come see this." Josh stepped towards the computer. The Pacific Coast of Canada spread across the screen. Warren pointed to a marker amid a range of high peaks north of Price Island. "It's called Mount Verloren."

Josh was puzzled. "Verloren. That means 'lost,' doesn't it? What do you want with a 'lost' mountain?"

"There's a cavern at 2900 meters where I spent a couple of days some time ago. I want to build there."

"You want to buy a mountain?"

"Just the rights to put up a structure. No roads, no trails, no ski lifts. It will only be accessible from the air."

"Okay. But you're going to need one hell of a pilot to deliver construction supplies."

"I'm hoping you can find that person - someone discreet, who has no connection to the family or the company. And I don't want anybody from the region who might talk to the locals."

"All right. A clandestine operation." Josh went back to his briefcase and removed a folder. He handed it to Warren. "Here's one last item for you. There were some clippings in the files. They're pretty interesting."

Warren opened the folder on the countertop and sifted through the yellowed strips of newspaper. He picked out a 1933 society column from The New York Herald Tribune which described a benefit for the Martha Graham Dance Company. There was a photograph of a young woman with pressed wavy hair posing with a man wearing formal attire. The caption under the image read, "Shipping and Aircraft Entrepreneur Warren Worthington meets Principal Dancer Rosalind Grey."

"This isn't possible." Warren stared at the picture.

"What?" asked Josh, closing the valise.

"The girl in this article looks exactly like... Never mind. It doesn't make any sense. She must be a relative." Warren placed the slip of newsprint aside from the rest. "You're probably ready to leave."

"Please tell me there's a way down that doesn't involve flying."

"There's the maintenance chute. But with a sling, it'd be difficult. It really requires two hands."

Josh rubbed his forehead. "Wonderful."

* * *

Jean Grey gazed across West 120th Street at the dormer windows jutting out from the roof of Teachers College from her chair in Professor Steiner's physics seminar on the twelfth floor of the Fermi Building. Her brain wasn't working right. She no longer found anything appealing about the old red brick edifice, tinged with the smoke of late nineteenth century industrial New York. Even the morning sunlight, dancing in the antique glass panes, seemed merely incidental.

The view had meant so much to her on that first day of classes. She was a known mutant, looking beyond the campus she shared with thousands of normal students and faculty to the great city that encompassed millions. Now the rooftops that stretched out from Morningside Heights into Harlem were simply shapes to distract her from Professor Steiner, who was droning on and on in the front of the room.

Turning from the exterior world, Grey tried to pay attention to her instructor. She might find his lecture interesting, if she could hear it properly. His words sounded distant and unclear. It was like her ears were stuffed with cotton.

She caught Peter Wyngarde sitting nearby in the corner of her vision. He smiled. But he wasn't particularly interesting anymore either. His gray eyes didn't gleam like they had before and he appeared older; there were lines cutting into his face.

Something was very wrong. She was exhausted and she didn't understand why. It took effort to remain at her desk and not slump onto the floor. Her shoulders were sore from the weight of the adamantium vest, which was much heavier than it used to be. It was pressing down on her lungs, making it difficult to get enough air… She pinched her upper arm. _Wake up!_

_It's the pills_. She had taken three since she left Xavier in the recovery bay on Sub Level 1. "Every twelve hours," was the prescription. Her neurochemistry was adjusting to the compound. That's what was going on. She'd be fine in a few days, a week at most. _Maybe…_

A man she hadn't noticed earlier walked over to Steiner. The professor patted the man's shoulder.

"Okay everybody, this is Dr. Alain Corbeau. He is a very good friend and he is also a leading researcher at Starcore. In our last class, we discussed the Scharnhorst effect and the possibility of photons traveling faster than the speed of light in a vacuum. Well, Dr. Corbeau and his team have discovered a superluminal phenomenon that can't be explained away as a quibble over terminology. During his presentation, I want you to ask yourselves: Is this an anomaly? Or do we need to change the rules?"

The lights dimmed. A star field filled the projection wall. The glowing points captivated Jean as she watched successive slides zoom in on a large bright object.

"This is HD 2261." Corbeau moved aside to allow everyone a full picture. "It's about seventy-seven light years from Earth and it's the most brilliant star in the constellation Phoenix. Traditionally it's known as the 'Head of the Phoenix,' or Ankaa, which means 'firebird' in Arabic. We also refer to it as Alpha Phoenicis. Scientists regarded this star as a common orange giant with no exceptional characteristics. Then we detected this."

A tiny spot in the lower left section of the fiery sphere increased in magnification. Jean bit her lip.

"This small stellar companion to Alpha Phoenicis is designated Starcore Anomalous Object 13; and, by the way, the other twelve are purely theoretical. This is one of the most bizarre bodies ever observed. After pulsation pattern analysis, we realized we'd found a very unique formation: a crystallized white dwarf variant. But soon there were more surprises."

The broad screen displayed charts comparing the cosmic fingerprint of the orange giant to that of the degraded companion.

"We checked additional spectroscopic measurements. I didn't believe it at first, but the readings said Object 13 was the same age as Alpha Phoenicis. In fact, the two had once been practically identical binary suns. What force in the universe could have transformed a massive class K star into a moon-sized diamond?"

This was too much. She wished she was still hazily staring out the window or had stayed in bed. Then she wouldn't be witnessing evidence that her nightmares were on the verge of coming true…

"A few months ago, while my team was investigating how the life span of a star could possibly be altered so significantly, we saw this." A slide showing the expanse of the Phoenix Constellation featured a red circle in the far upper right of the frame. "The white speck there, that's Object 13, five light years outside its predicted orbit. This thing covered a distance of five light years in a single month."

A wave of gasps followed. Jean felt chilled.

"That was back in July," Corbeau continued. "Since then it's gone an additional twenty light years along the same trajectory. It's currently approaching Upsilon Aquarii."

One of the young men who always sat close to the front asked, "Dr. Corbeau, are you claiming this object is on a planned course? What is it? An alien space ship?"

"Aliens are unlikely, I'd say. I've seen nothing definitive supporting the conclusion its movement is 'planned.' But obviously some immense power is propelling it through the galaxy. And its heading has been consistent. Perhaps it is being directed somehow, or it's attracted to something." The lights went on.

"It's coming here." Jean instantly regretted speaking out loud. The class broke into laughter.

"It does sound funny, everyone. But, Miss…?"

Steiner introduced her. "This is Jean Grey."

"Well, Miss Grey, Object 13 is getting closer. I hope it comes near enough for us to find out everything we can about it."

Steiner signaled his colleague that it was time to curtail the discussion. Jean zipped up her vest and grabbed her computer. Feeling nauseous and weak, she wanted to leave quickly. But to exit she had to get beyond a growing group of her classmates gathered around Alain Corbeau. She sensed the scientist's eyes on her as she passed.

"Jean, Miss Grey…" he called, ignoring the other students' questions.

"Yes?" She turned. _Come on, let me out of here._

"Sorry, to keep you." Corbeau moved towards her. "I'm going up to the Institute in a couple of hours, to meet with Dr. McCoy and Professor Xavier. Hank has been telling me about your studies. I'm sure being here hasn't been easy for you."

"Oh, it's been fine. Really. Your presentation was fascinating. Nice to meet you." Grey stepped backwards and left the room.

The white streaks on the black floor tiles guided her to the elevator waiting area at the end of the hall. The shoes belonging to the person standing next to her were familiar. She looked up and saw Peter Wyngarde. His brow was smooth again and his gray eyes were shining.

"I won, Xi'an," he said, and smiled at Jean.

Xi'an leaned against him. "Hi Jean. I was so hungry for lunch I came up here to rush you guys. Peter said you were still in there talking to Dr. Corbeau. I was about to pass out, but he assured me you'd get here before the 'lift.'" As if on cue, the brass elevator doors slid apart. "And now I owe him a french fry."

Jean immediately felt better. Maybe the M56 levels in her blood stream were subsiding. Or maybe it was Peter and Xi'an. She sensed some kind of strange, wonderful energy radiating from them.

"So, the Astral again, girls?" Wyngarde asked once they were in the lobby. "They do have the best fries." He grinned at Xi'an.

"I don't know. I'm not feeling very good." Jean watched their faces sharpen with concern.

Disappointment darkened the tenor of Peter's voice. "I thought you seemed a bit run down in class."

"You have a cold?" asked Xi'an.

"No. The past two days were really rough. I had to deal with a lot of stuff. Oh, Peter, I'm so sorry, I totally forgot to get you those notes yesterday…"

"I'll forgive you if you come to lunch with us." Peter beamed another warm smile. "You have to eat sometime."

"Jean, have you eaten anything recently? You seem really thin. Like too thin." Xi'an assumed a clinical tone. "Brain needs food."

"You're right. I did pretty much forget about meals." Grey had barely consumed anything for almost forty-eight hours and the soup at the Astral was delicious.

They sat in the same booth as before. The scene on Broadway was different though. Instead of drenching rain, sunshine gilded the storefronts and parked cars. After mouthfuls of soup, Jean felt restored. She laughed at the elaborate performance Xi'an made of feeding Peter his honorably won french fries.

Wyngarde blocked his fiancée's final fry volley. "That will suffice, darling. Jean, you have a lovely laugh. It's good to hear it."

"What happened over the weekend, anyway? You can tell us." Xi'an stroked Jean's shoulder.

"It's complicated. But basically I've been having trouble controlling my telepathy and someone got hurt as a result. So, I'm taking medication."

"Psychic medication, really?" Peter cocked his head in surprise.

"You mean drugs to 'cure' your telepathy?" Xi'an did not approve.

"It was kind of a last resort. The techniques I used to use don't work anymore."

"Find a new technique then. But stop the drugs. They're making you sick." Xi'an took Jean's hand and reached for Peter's. "We can try something right here."

"Xi'an's a comparative religion major." Peter stretched his arm towards Jean's other side. "She won't shut up about Ajivikan meditation and mystical projection…"

Jean withdrew her hands. "Thanks guys, but I'm pretty sure Professor X and I have tried every kind of meditation and mental exercise there is."

"Well, Peter and I aren't Professor Xavier, we aren't even mutants. That might make all the difference. And come on, it's just for fun, it can't make things worse."

"Okay." Jean liked the feel of Xi'an's silky fingers.

"It's a simple thought experiment. I've been reading these ancient texts that were recently discovered in Bihar, India, from this lost sect called the Ajivikas. They believed in a cosmic principle called Niyati, which means the 'self beyond the self.'"

Jean had never heard of Niyati, but she liked the way Xi'an pronounced it. The word twirled off her tongue.

"The Ajivikas used Niyati as a method of self-discipline. The idea is to create another awareness, a metaphysical twin. So, shut your eyes."

"I see french fries. I think I ate too many."

"That's great, Peter. Just keep your lids closed and listen…"

After a minute, the babble of the lunchtime crowd faded into a wash of non-distinct background noise. Grey heard the sound of her heart beat getting louder. Soon it was joined by two other rhythms. Within moments Xi'an and Peter's heart rates fell into synch with her own.

"Imagine me, Jean, as I am now, sitting next to you. See me without using your eyes. Now think about Peter. Peter, you envision the two of us."

The image of Xi'an beside her and Peter across the table formed in Grey's thoughts.

"Jean, see yourself in your mind…here in the diner. You do the same, Peter. This is who you are. But not all you are. You are not just the person in the restaurant. You are also the person who sees yourself. These three people, named Xi'an and Peter and Jean, we can let them go. Let go of all their problems, all their pain."

Jean watched her body get smaller as her consciousness drifted above the Astral Diner. The three of them were together in a place where fear of mutants, Object 13, and the X-Men could not touch them.

"Those bodies down there. We can operate them like puppets. We can make them talk and move. But we live up here. We don't feel their cares or their suffering." _For us, those emotions do not exist…_


	31. Remy LeBeau

**Chapter 30 – Remy LeBeau**

Rogue lagged behind Kitty on the way to school. The first snowflake of winter melted on her nose, despite the month being only October. The schizophrenic weather was starting to bother her; the temperature had been sixty degrees Fahrenheit the day before. It was better than summer, at least. August was scorching, hottest on record, and Rogue had sweated it out in long sleeves and gloves. It wasn't quite as bad when everyone else was covered up too.

"Rogue, we gotta hurry! I can't be late to class again!" Kitty called back.

Pryde was ten yards ahead, passing by the alleyway between the rebuilt gymnasium and the maintenance area. Scott had put them through another brutal battle exercise that morning. Rogue was convinced he was transferring his anger and resentment towards Jean onto the team. Maybe if somebody died during one of these 'workouts,' Summers would realize the rest of the world still existed whether or not Jean Grey was his girlfriend.

Rogue walked faster for a few feet, but her pace slowed just as she approached the alley. She'd been thinking about Remy LeBeau a lot. Last Monday, while she was paying for lunch in the cafeteria, the playing card he gave her – the Queen of Hearts – fell out of her wallet and flitted under the salad bar. She felt idiotic scrambling on the floor, but she couldn't lose it. Right now she wished he'd show up once more, waiting in the alley, like that day back in spring.

God, how crazy could she be? She was pining for the guy who took her captive, smuggled her south to New Orleans on a freight train, and lied to her repeatedly. As the tracks rumbled beneath the boxcar he sprinkled her ears with deceptions so sweet she soon began to believe them.

He held her gloved hand when they leapt from the freight car two miles north of the French Quarter. Half an hour later, as they strolled down Bienville Street, he draped his arm around her shoulders. Rogue forgot she'd been kidnapped.

Oblivious to the snow that was currently collecting on her coat, she felt warm inside. She was remembering the taste of the jambalaya they shared that night at the out of the way jazz club he took her to. In between bites they laughed and smiled at each other. When sworn enemies of the LeBeau family, known as the Rippers, interrupted the meal and attacked Remy, Rogue jumped to defend him.

One of the thugs had Gambit by the throat and was about to smash a fist into his face. Without hesitating for a second, she floored the rival gangster with a single touch from her exposed left hand. Armed with the knowledge she absorbed, she guided Remy through the bayou to the Rippers' stronghold.

Then came the tumble down the embankment. Remy got up first and inexplicably allowed his little finger to brush her cheek. He was instantly knocked unconscious and Rogue learned the truth. He had taken her to the club because he knew they'd be discovered there; and in the midst of a fight he figured she would use her powers and subsequently gain the information he required. She had been played. Her fury was so intense, she almost left him for dead; he'd used her like everyone else. But the touch had also revealed the vulnerability that lay behind his swaggering façade. Remy wanted to get close to her. Even though it could kill him.

"Chérie…" A voice with a distinctive, light Cajun accent came from the alley.

_Be careful what you wish for, _Rogue warned herself. Turning, she saw Gambit's charged red irises glowing in the shadows. "What do you want this time?" She tried to seem annoyed.

"Just saying hello, Rogue." The rest of his features became visible as he emerged from the shade.

"I have class, you know."

"Why are you still doing the school thing anyway? You're gonna be like Jean Grey and become a college girl? I don't see it." He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk.

"Well, I don't want to end up like you - a thief who hangs out in alleyways."

"I ain't hanging out. Just passing by." His breath steamed in the cold air.

"On your way to bed, I bet." She moved in to show she wasn't intimidated. "Big party last night?" They were so close she had to raise her chin to talk to him.

"Not very big. But there is something tonight. And I was thinking you and I might go together…"

"You mean the Hellfire Club? You want to come with me to the gala for the Professor?" She backed away and looked up at the classroom windows in the main building. "I wasn't planning on going."

"Well, maybe now you reconsider, chére."

What was she doing? She should be in French class. Then again, it was likely she'd learn more French being with Remy than listening to her teacher. "Why should I?"

"Why not? We'll have a fine time."

"Sure we will. Why do you want to go? The real reason." She blinked to clear her lashes of snowflakes.

"All business and no pleasure avec toi. I'm tracking somebody for the boss."

Her forehead tightened. "You're back with Magneto? Why?"

"Got to rest my head somewhere. Can't be just anywhere, 'cause there're people who'd like to chop it off."

"Why didn't you come to the Institute?"

The breeze swirling around him carried the scent of spices. "You know why, chére. Not my scene. But it doesn't make us enemies. Magneto and Xavier are like two old spinsters these days – playing chess and drinking tea every Wednesday afternoon."

"Yeah. It's weird. But they used to be friends, you know, long ago."

"Well there's one thing Magnus needs that his old pal Xavier won't do. And that's why I got to find this telepath. He goes by Mastermind."

"Mastermind? Kurt told me about him. He messed up Wanda, changed her memories so she wouldn't hate her father anymore." Her eyes shifted from Remy to the path to the school.

"And those bad thoughts are coming back 'cause Mister Mastermind disappeared without finishing the job," LeBeau went on, stepping onto the sidewalk. "Since your Professor has refused to help, the boss needs this guy. There's a girl Mastermind sent messages to named Emma Frost, and if my information is correct, she is the hostess this evening."

The wind wound down. The only noise came from the intermittent traffic on Route 22. She looked at him again. "I'm not going to help you find Mastermind so Magneto can give Wanda another psychic lobotomy. No way."

"There're other reasons to locate him. He was real interested in you X-Men. Especially Jean Grey. He went through all the records on the system. And I heard him asking Mesmero about her. He wanted to find out how Mesmero was able to control another telepath."

Something stirred in the alley behind Remy. A familiar swish sound made Rogue picture the back of Kitty's head when she flicked her ponytail during an abrupt turn.

"I'm not sure. I have to leave…"

"You want this weird guy taking over your friend Jean's mind like Mesmero did? Everybody's saying her powers have gone off the charts." Tiny ice crystals glistened on the back of his leather glove as he gently pressed her coat sleeve. "Come on, chére. What else are you gonna do tonight? Stay in and watch tv?"


	32. Hellfire

**Chapter 31 – Hellfire**

The New York chapter of the Hellfire Club had resided at the crossing of Pearl and Broad on the southern tip of Manhattan since the late eighteenth century. The intersection was just south of Wall Street, two blocks from the harbor, in the oldest part of the city.

The Dutch erected the island's earliest church there in 1633. Within four years of its construction, it became the scene of a tragedy, the first of many violent and fiery disasters that would strike the community on this particular parcel of land. The rapid growth of the settlement, then called New Amsterdam, had swelled the number of worshipers until the congregation packed the chapel to the rafters. One autumn Sunday, after a summer of little rain, lightning from a sudden thunderstorm split the dry trunk of a tall pine tree adjacent to the church. The burning branches crashed onto the wooden roof, setting it afire. Of the fifty souls who crammed in to hear the pastor's sermon that Sabbath, only twenty survived.

Johannes Van Cortlandt, the first native-born Caucasian to become mayor of the recently renamed English town of New York, bought the lot in 1671 and put up the finest house in the region. Unfortunately, the beams he used were not strong enough to withstand the massive hurricane of 1705. The former mayor and his wife were crushed when the walls caved in and the ceiling collapsed.

Etienne 'Stephen' DeLancey, who had married Van Cortlandt's single surviving child, Anne, took over the land and disposed of any remnants that might remind his wife of her parents' brutal demise. At great expense, he imported thousands of gold-colored bricks from Holland to build a proper Georgian estate. But the yellow glaze merely added fuel to the flames that devastated Pearl Street and the nearby docks along Quincy Slip during the Slave Insurrection of 1741. Two decades later DeLancey's grandson, desperate to stave off his creditors and avoid financial ruin, sold the site to an Englishman named Walter Duffield, who converted the poorly reconstructed house into an inn and tavern called 'The Queen's Head.'

In 1783, Hellfire charter members Joseph Shaw, Juliana Grey, Richard and Amelia Macnee, Sabina Baronesa de Monte Villena, and Harold Pierce went to inspect the recently liberated New York City real estate they had purchased. The formerly bustling neighborhood was a wasteland. The fires that raged throughout the British wartime occupation had leveled everything. Where DeLancey's proud manor had once stood, they found crumbling timbers, and beneath a blackened cellar door, the charred remains of the innkeeper, Walter Duffield.

Despite the inauspicious start, it didn't take long for the group to establish a formidable membership culled from Manhattan's burgeoning class of titanic entrepreneurs and proto-industrialists. Soon the Hellfire Club occupied a majestic Palladian structure patterned after the grand London palaces that housed Britain's premier social associations such as White's and Almack's.

Strangely, no storms, fires or rebellions damaged the property significantly over the decades that followed. Even when Old City Hall right across the street burned to the ground in 1843, Hellfire was spared. The three days of mayhem and slaughter known as the Civil War Draft Riots of 1863 destroyed nearly every home and business from Broadway to the harbor, but left the grand mansion untouched. Sensing the continuity of history around them, the elite few invited to become part of the society eagerly accepted throughout the ensuing years. The club's wealth and influence increased steadily.

From the beginning, a small, secret council, consisting originally of the six founders, directed the organization. The Inner Circle was known exclusively to its members and those under consideration. After swearing an oath of absolute loyalty on pain of death, chosen peers were entrusted with a platinum key, which granted access to the great chamber behind the heavy ebony doors on the uppermost floor.

* * *

Emma Frost studied her appearance in the mirror of the dressing table within her large private suite. Her stylist, Violetta, brushed her pale blond hair. Emma's chest was encased in a silvery-white, silk satin bodice attached to a tight pencil skirt. As long as she didn't eat anything or breathe too deeply, the seams of her dress should hold fine, she assured herself.

Violetta's firm strokes bumped Frost's focus from her reflection to the shiny key lying on the linen covering the antique wooden table. It gleamed in the lamplight. Shaw had led the ceremony the night before. It meant the probationary period was over. She was now a peer of the Inner Circle.

There had been some objections. She had plucked the details from Shaw's thoughts. Selene Gallio, the Contessa di Monteluce, who was properly referred to as the 'Black Queen' in the company of the Circle, called the action premature.

Frost heard a loud knock. She motioned to Violetta to answer the door. Sebastian Shaw entered. Emma caught his strong, dark features in the glass.

"Hello, Sebastian. Violetta, you may go."

Shaw leaned over and wrapped his arms around her. "You look like a queen." He kissed the top of her head.

She raised her hand to caress his carefully groomed sideburns. "You treat me like one."

"I have something for you." He produced a slim box wrapped in crimson paper. "I hope it will go with your dress." He placed the red package next to the key. Emma's ice blue eyes widened as she ripped the paper and opened it. There was a single strand of perfectly shaped, large pearls. "For the new queen of Pearl Street," he said.

"They're beautiful." She lifted her hair and he fastened the clasp at the back of her neck.

"You're beautiful. I have yet to figure out what I wouldn't do for you." He moved to her side and traced her cheek with his index finger. "I'm even willing to put up with Jason, that old sop. I 'spose I will have to find a way to thank him someday, for introducing us."

"He says our little project is progressing by the way…"

"Stop right there. I don't want to know anything about it. Can't have Charles Xavier sifting through my brain when I shake his hand and discovering our plans regarding a specific someone. You psychics keep it to yourselves."

"I guess I should get up there and check preparations." Emma stepped to the window and pushed aside the drapes to gauge the conditions outside. "What's the weather doing?" The sky was clear from the ninety-story Amalgamated Bank Center half a block east to the distant lights of Governors Island and the Brooklyn Waterfront across the harbor. "I don't see snow falling…"

"Emma, I was intrigued by your decision to have a party on the roof in October. Yet, I wasn't certain it was the wisest choice. But it seems even Mother Nature bends to your wishes. The reports say no more snow and the temperature is warming. Shall we?" He offered his arm and she took it.

"We will be inside mostly, you know." They walked into the hall.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" asked Shaw.

"Oh!" Emma whirled around and snatched the platinum key from the dressing table.

"It is rather gauche to leave it out in the open like that. It's not something you show off." His tone was almost stern.

"I'll keep it hidden from now on." Revealing a tiny pocket just below the 'v' shaped dip of her décolletage, Emma slipped in the key. She beamed at Shaw. He laughed.

* * *

Warren could taste the warm currents the second he emerged from the Worthington Tower into the air space above Midtown. The snow clouds had rolled offshore. The expanding heat from the business and traffic of the day filled his wings. The rising thermals carried him higher and higher as they dispersed into the cooler atmosphere above the skyscrapers. He could ascend effortlessly for ten, maybe fifteen thousand feet, then ride the pressure system south along the coast for miles… Angel reluctantly pitched into a downward spiral. Tonight he had other plans.

He circled the spire of the Chrysler Building. The tapered crown of luminous triangles dominated the evening cityscape – a glimmering weave of orange, yellow, red, and green dots. Why was he going to this party at the Hellfire Club? There probably wouldn't be enough room to stretch his wings. He feared he was about to get trapped in a cramped space stuffed with people.

Twenty-third Street passed beneath him. Moments later he spied the trail of brake signals choking Houston to the Holland Tunnel. Candy's loft was a minute away. He still had time to get out of this. He could have Viktor call and give her some sort of excuse.

But what if Jean showed up? For an instant he thought she was gliding beside him. Waves of her red hair crested and curved as she turned to face him; her fiery irises flickered. Then he saw White Street below. The deck on top of Candy Southern's building was spotted with lanterns hanging from vine-entwined trellis walls. The hazy lights illuminated a slender person wearing a long, sweeping coat tied at the waist with a fur-lined hood. It was Candy.

Warren pulled in his wings to land but had to resist a strong wind blasting from the south. The gust he deflected rocked the lanterns, blew back Candy's hood and parted the folds of her coat.

His shoes tapped the wide wooden deck planks. "Sorry, Candy."

"That's all right. It was refreshing." She tossed her black curls while readjusting her clothes.

"You look nice," he said, noticing the turquoise color of her dress.

"I see Flitcroft & Thwaite still know how to make a suit. I love that cut." She smoothed the right lapel of his jacket. "Follow me." She led him to a table by a set of Adirondack chairs. There was a bottle of champagne and two flutes. She peeled off the foil and began unwinding the metal twist.

"You really like champagne." Was he going to start drinking?

"All girls like champagne." There was a muted pop as she removed the cork.

"Uh huh."

She poured fizzing liquid into one of the glasses. "Here." She handed it to him.

"This is supposed to make tonight easier for me?" He liked the peppery smell and the rising columns of tiny golden bubbles.

"You don't want to go?"

"The place probably has small rooms with low ceilings. It'll be crowded. I won't be able to move…"

"It's in the glass pavilion on the roof. The ceilings in there are two and half stories tall and you can go outside anytime. You won't be cooped up for a second, Warren." Candy filled the other flute for herself.

"I won't have to enter the building? You're sure?"

"Not unless you want to. They have renovated the place extensively, by the way. Miller, Reinhardt and Simon did an amazing job. You might have a good time if you relax a little." She clinked his glass. "Cheers."

"Drinking and flying. Great." He took a sip. "I'm not on very friendly terms with the X-Men either."

"Why is that?" She tilted her head. "What happened?"

"I don't want to get into it." Warren drank more champagne. "But if Scott Summers shoots me, at least I won't have to deal with my dad tomorrow."

Candy smiled and refilled their glasses. "Well, after tomorrow's business is done, Sunday night, guess what you're doing?"

"Nothing. I hope."

"You're taking me to the Ballet."

"No I'm not. Candy, do you understand what Josh and I are dealing with? We're challenging the board… I might be on an operating table Sunday." He stepped away.

"Don't be so dramatic." She shortened the distance between them and nudged his arm. "You guys will do fine. It's the premiere of Giselle. Rachel Dunbar is dancing. Your family's box sits empty every performance. It's a shame."

"I can't think about that right now, okay?" He gave her his half-finished second drink.

Candy put down the glasses. She raised her hood and secured it with a scarf tied under her chin. "I'm ready. Are you?"

"As ready as possible." He spread his wings as she reached around his neck.

* * *

News choppers swarmed the skies above Pearl and Broad, while hundreds of reporters and their press vans and camera trucks carpeted the sidewalks and glutted the streets. The media army crushed against the wrought iron gates girding the premises. Within the perimeter, lines of security personnel slowed the flow of large vehicles squeezing through the entrance to a trickle.

Less than a half-mile distant, a growing patch of fog blanketed FDR Drive by South Street Seaport. The mist obscured an elegant, late nineteen-fifties black-over-sand Bentley limousine as it steadily snaked through the canyons of Wall Street. The other drivers on the road felt oddly compelled to stop and allow the sleek car that had emerged from nowhere to pass.

The dense vapor shrouding the Bentley rapidly pervaded the entire area within a five-block radius of the Hellfire Club. The photographers' lenses became clouded. The helicopters dispersed due to poor visibility, as did the majority of the mobile crews and freelancers on foot. A small number of intrepid holdouts stood their ground. But, one by one, they too peeled off. Seized by a mysterious suggestion that they reform their journalistic careers, they scattered in search of meaningful stories that would transform society. No one was left, aside from the guards immediately positioned by the main door, to witness the four shadowy individuals disembark from the antique automobile.

The precise revolutions of the motorized wheels that transported Professor Xavier through the Great Hall generated a low hum. Scott was surprised he could detect it. He was disturbed by how quiet the place was. Each step on the marble floor echoed. The building seemed sealed off from the rest of the city.

Cyclops glanced at Ororo. She definitely appeared to be agitated. The fabric of her flowing sarong snapped with static electricity. Mist swirled around her ankles. He wondered if Hank was also apprehensive. McCoy's blue fur stiffened – either from Storm's charge or his unsettled nerves, or a combination of both.

Summers recentered his vision on the hallway ahead and observed a phrase etched in the stained glass transom arching over the corridor to the elevators. "What does that mean?" he asked Hank.

"Fait ce que voudras." Beast pronounced the words fluidly while the two of them boarded the lift after Charles and Ororo. "It translates as 'Do as you desire.' I assume it's their motto."

As the elevator neared the roof Scott was relieved to hear the noise of human activity. Professor X's thoughts entered his head.

_Remember, this is an intelligence mission. We are here to seek information. Enjoy yourselves, but be wary._

Once they arrived, Scott missed the sterile silence of the lobby. The massive crystal walls of the pavilion rang with hundreds of sophisticated sounding conversations. He did not belong here. What could he possibly say to these wealthy society types? It would be different if Jean had come with him and things were like they used to be. When she was by his side he never cared how strangers judged him.

A resonant baritone voice called the Professor. "Welcome, Charles Xavier. I'm Sebastian Shaw." Charles wheeled a few yards away to shake hands with the powerful-looking, finely dressed man. After reaching out to Hank, Shaw greeted Ororo with a lingering gaze. "It is an honor and a pleasure, Ms. Munroe."

Scott remained by the entrance. There was a woman standing by Shaw's left. She had straight, platinum blond hair and light blue, practically colorless eyes. Her pretty face and flawless skin were lovely, but Cyclops was most amazed by her shape, especially the contours of her shiny satin bodice. She left the rest of the group and moved towards him.

"Hello. You must be Scott Summers." She clasped his palm. "Emma Frost."

"I don't understand what I'm doing here." He knew she was telepathic; he might as well tell the truth.

"Stay for a while. Perhaps you'll find out." Her pink lips made it easy to forget everyone else. Scott thought her smile gleamed more brightly than the pearls of the necklace she wore.

"I don't go to a lot of parties like this," he admitted.

"Tonight will be memorable then. Why don't I give you a tour?"

Summers checked with the Professor. Xavier, Hank and Ororo were still engaged with Shaw, who was introducing them to two middle-aged men: the first was fat with a reddish beard; the second, tall and thin, jerked slightly as he gripped McCoy. Charles signaled his approval to Cyclops with a barely perceptible nod.

Scott turned back to Emma. "Okay. Lead on."

He liked Frost's fast, confident walk. Her stability on spindly high-heels was impressive.

"Care to go out on the roof?" she asked. "There's a spectacular view. Or there was, until that thick fog blew in."

"I bet it's cleared. At least most of those helicopters and camera trucks are gone now."

"You X-Men don't like the press." Her swift, purposeful stride discouraged the clumps of people eyeing them from approaching.

"They call us monsters, even when we're risking our lives to save people. They don't get who we are or what we're about, at all."

"We could change that. That's what this event is for. This way." She guided him past a performance platform to a pair of wide-open steel and glass doors which led outside. "I was hoping you'd bring your friend Jean Grey."

"I don't think she's going to make it. She said she had too much work to do."

"That's disappointing."

Crossing the threshold, Summers was astonished he didn't sense a draft. Shouldn't Emma be shivering in her strapless gown? The deck was almost as warm as the interior. "How come we're not freezing out here?"

"It's heated." She pointed to the floor. Tightly wound filaments glowed within semi-transparent tiles.

"That's gotta be expensive," said Summers.

"Actually it's quite economically and ecologically responsible. The coils are part of an integrated system. During the day they convert and store solar energy, which is circulated throughout the building; and at night, when it's cooler, the rising heat indoors recharges them while producing additional electricity. Shaw Industries developed the technology." She gestured widely at the web of lights surrounding them. "Everything up here is powered by the sun."

Scott saw luminous outlines of tall trees, benches and café tables. The mist had dissipated. Beyond the bejeweled branches, the towers of the city glittered. He was in an electric forest, in a valley ringed by mountains made of stars. But one section of the roof – the southeast corner – was ominously dark. "Why aren't there any lights over there?"

"That area is under construction." A waiter came by bearing a silver tray. "Are you hungry? Hors d'œuvre?" offered Frost.

He couldn't tell what the colorful morsels were but they smelled tasty. He took one. The server hurried on to attend to the increasing number gathering on the deck. "What is this?" Summers asked.

"Oh, I don't recall. I'm sure it's good." Another waiter arrived. Without shifting her sight from Scott, Emma retrieved two glasses of wine. "Drink?"

"Thanks."

The dry wine went well with the sweet yet savory appetizer. Emma casually sipped as they strolled to the roof's edge. Couples at the café tables scattered along the marble balustrade talked and laughed while admiring the buildings. Maybe he did belong here.

"Those red lenses are so mysterious." Emma leaned against the stone barrier. "So, what would happen if you took them off and stared right at me?"

"You'd die."

A sudden gust of frigid air blasted the roof. Scott barely maintained his balance without spilling his drink. The harsh wind blew Emma's hair over her face; she clutched her bare shoulders. Summers quickly removed his jacket and covered her. When they lifted their heads they saw giant wings closing as a young man and woman dropped from the sky. Their soles clicked on the tile surface.

Emma swept her hair into place and rotated her pearl necklace. "What an entrance." Still wearing Cyclops' suit jacket, she moved to welcome them. Scott trailed her. Emma extended her arm in his direction. "Candy, this is Scott Summers."

Candy undid her scarf and pushed back her hood. "Nice pearls, Emma. Great to meet you, Scott."

Warren stood rigidly. He remained silent and stared at Summers.

"Likewise," said Cyclops, avoiding Warren's glare.

"Candy's a journalist and she doesn't think mutants are monsters," Emma commented.

"You mean my last article." Candy's eyes darted at Warren. "I might be changing my mind."

Worthington didn't react. His attention was entirely fixed on Scott.

Candy patted Angel's side. "Let me present Warren Worthington the Third – the most worthy of the Worthingtons. Warren, this is my dear friend Emma Frost."

"Hi, Emma." Warren's focus rested on Frost for a split second before returning to Summers.

"You're one of our hereditary members. We'd love to see more of you." Neither of the men seemed aware Emma was speaking. "You guys know each other, obviously." Frost was not accustomed to being ignored. She handed Scott his jacket. "I think Candy and I might get a drink. We'll see you boys inside."

Scott spoke first. "Warren, I should have apologized to you a long time ago." He pulled on his jacket. "I'm really sorry about, you know, what happened…"

"Could you please tell me what happened? I have no idea. One second, I was at the Institute with Jean, and the next I was crashing into Midtown." Worthington's feathers ruffled. "How was that even possible?"

"Jean did it. She saved your life. She knew what I was about to do so she made you disappear. I hit her instead."

Warren's expression hardened. "Was she hurt?"

"Broke a rib, nothing serious physically. She's hated me ever since though." Cyclops looked down at the coils pulsing within the tile floor. "I was wrong. Totally wrong to attack you."

Warren turned towards the pavilion and began visually searching the interior. "Is she here?"

"No. She's not coming." Scott peered inside as well. "Warren, I'm not threatening you. I'm giving you some really good advice: Leave Jean alone. She's changed. We don't know who she is…or what she can do."

A wall of silence arose between the two. Angel was scouring recent arrivals when he caught the profile of a person he recognized.

"I hope the women here are holding onto their jewelry."

"What are you talking about?" Scott was perplexed by the shift in Warren's tone.

"The Prince of Thieves is working tonight."

"Gambit?" Remy LeBeau was not someone Summers expected to run into at a gala reception at a private club. "Where?"

"By the elevators."

Scott strained to identify a single individual among the dim cluster of figures by the entry hall. "You can pick him out from here?"

"You didn't know he was coming? He's with Rogue."

* * *

Her gloves stayed on while she took off her gray woolen coat. "Aren't you gonna give me a ticket or something?" she asked the cloakroom clerk.

"Don't worry. I'll remember you, Miss." The old guy's coarse profile and deliberate manner convinced her he'd been there a long time and knew how things were done.

"Come on, Rogue." Remy was impatient.

"Does the gentleman wish to check any items?" asked the venerable attendant.

Remy tugged the collar of his rust-colored duster. "I'll keep this on." Rogue walked up to him. He grasped her hands. "Damn fine they are, no, ma chére?"

"They're real nice."

The opera length gloves went beyond her elbow. They were made of the most exquisite kid leather, lined with silk, with three buttons that fastened at the wrist. They fit perfectly, like another layer of skin. When she clenched her fists, a green-blue sheen burnished the taut fabric along her knuckles.

Remy claimed he'd had someone down in New Orleans make them especially for her. They had, of course, a special design feature. If she snapped her thumb and middle finger on either hand a small pad covering her fingertip slid to the side. If necessary, she could touch someone without having to remove her glove.

They crossed in front of the elevators and surveyed the gathering. Rogue located Professor Xavier and Beast nearby. They were talking to a portly red bearded guy and a darkly dressed woman whose chalky pallid face resembled a porcelain mask. Several paces further Ororo conversed closely with a broad-chested black-haired man in a pricy suit. A string of people curved around the man. Rogue guessed they were waiting to speak with him.

"Wanna bet that's Sebastian Shaw over there with Ororo?" she asked Remy.

"Must be," he concurred. "A man's gotta think a whole lot of himself to play with Storm."

"Think he knows what she's really like? Or is he in for a shock?"

"No, he's the type who'd enjoy getting smacked with lightning."

"Hey, it's Scott." Rogue noticed Summers passing by the stage platform. "He's coming this way. And there's…Warren." Worthington moved hesitantly. A girl with curls in a turquoise gown soon joined him. Rogue remembered her name, Candy Southern, from the New York Magazine cover story on Angel.

Remy stepped forward. "I'm going to get something to drink."

"I knew this would be a waste of time. How are we going to find Mastermind if he's after Jean and she's not here? I told you she wasn't going to show."

"You don't see her anywhere? She might be out on the roof."

"Believe me, if Jean was here, there's no way both Warren and Scott would be standing."

"The night is young. What can I get you, chérie?"

"I'll have a coke. With a twist. I better say 'hi' to the Professor."

"I'll find you." LeBeau advanced to the bar.

Rogue was pretty certain Charles had been aware of her presence since she entered the club. She wasn't surprised when she heard his words in her mind.

_I had a feeling you would appear eventually._

Beast turned from his new acquaintances. "Rogue, you decided to come after all."

"This is another one of our students," Xavier explained. "Rogue, please meet Mister Harry Leland and Selene Gallio, the Contessa di Monteluce."

The freckled flesh framing Harry Leland's puffy eyes creased when he spoke. "What's your talent, young lady?"

"I uh…" Rogue looked at the Professor. He responded telepathically.

_Leland knows what your abilities are. I'm incapable of reading the Contessa…but you don't have to answer._

"I can do a lot of things," Rogue responded.

She felt the Contessa studying her. The woman was creepy. Though she seemed young at first, her unlined brow had a breakable, husk-like quality. Rogue sensed an ancient hunger chewing within the lady's slightly hunched, skinny form. She was also wearing long gloves; hers were black silk satin.

Selene abruptly took hold of Rogue's leather encased hands. "We are of the same blood, young one." Her voice was dry and crackly. "You have seen it…you've touched her, Shi'mor, the Phoenix, the bird of fire…"

Leland interrupted. "Contessa Gallio is a poet. She speaks in metaphor." Selene glared at him. "Come, Contessa, we have many more guests." He cupped her satin-enclosed elbow. She let Rogue loose and allowed Leland to lead her away.

Rogue bent to question Xavier. "What was she saying, Professor?" Charles transmitted a psychic reply.

_I'm unsure what she meant about sharing blood with you. But 'Shi'mor' and 'Phoenix' I've heard from someone else. I can't imagine how the Contessa could know…_

Rogue tracked Contessa Gallio and Leland as they wove through the attendees.

_She was talking about Jean, right?_

Leland and Gallio attached themselves to Shaw and Ororo, who were in a circle with Warren, Candy Southern and a platinum blond whose name was very likely Emma Frost.

_I fear you're correct, Rogue. We must discover the connection._

_Remy and I are on it. There's this mutant called Mastermind…_

_Mastermind? The telepath who altered Wanda's memories... I recall Magnus mentioning the man had vanished._

_Remy's found a lead. Mastermind's got something to do with Emma Frost and this place. And he wants to control Jean._

Hank broke up their conference. "Charles, Ororo just motioned for us to go up to the stage."

"I'll come by in a bit," Rogue told Xavier as he and Beast followed Ororo's summons.

She was so focused on the Professor and McCoy as they mixed with the rest of the crowd, that she failed to detect Scott Summers approaching. She cringed when he spoke.

"Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" he demanded, pulling her aside. "And why the hell did you bring him?"

"Since when do I need to check with you before I do anything?" she hissed.

"Maybe you should check out your date." Scott directed her to the bar area. "You can't trust him, Rogue." Her heart immediately sank. Remy was sitting on a stool, crouched over the counter, whispering into the ear of a beautiful, long-legged Asian woman.

Rogue said nothing and marched off to confront Remy.

"Where's my coke?" she barked.

"Excuse me." Gambit turned from his leggy companion and signaled the bartender who quickly prepared an iced coke with a twist. "Hello Rogue. Betsy Braddock here's an old friend."

"So, you're one of the X-Men." Betsy had a crisp British accent and lustrous violet eyes.

"Yeah. Remy, we have to go."

"Oh, don't let me keep you." Betsy rose, slicing between Rogue and LeBeau. "I was just going myself. See you later, Remy." As Braddock strolled to the elevators Rogue noted Gambit's obvious admiration for her body.

Remy smiled as Rogue dragged him into a corner. "Calm down, chére."

"What are you doing?" She raised a greenish-blue black leather fist. "Are you trying to make a total fool of me? I didn't want to come to this place. I didn't want to bring you. You said we were on a mission to find this Mastermind guy. And what are you doing? You're playing me again. Are we here so you can pick up Park Avenue chicks?"

"Betsy's Mayfair, not Park Avenue…"

"Whatever…"

"It's not whatever, Rogue. That girl's the key. I knew her in New Orleans years ago. Then we met again in London. She's a telepath." Remy stroked the back of Rogue's clenched right hand. "There's a small private cocktail lounge just below. I'm about to go down there and have another drink with my good ol' pal Betsy."

"You want me to touch her, don't you?"

"She's been staying here as a member, and with her extrasensory powers I'm sure she's acquired some information. One touch and we could learn it all."

"I like how you treat your friends."

Remy began uncurling her bent fingers one by one. "You're my only true friend, chére, you know that."

"And how are you and I going to get the jump on a telepath?"

"Well, they can't read you, can they?"

"That's what the Professor's said. Too many personalities for anyone who hasn't known me forever, like him and Jean."

"Psis can't capture my thoughts either, most of the time. I told you we were cut from the same cloth." Gambit pressed her wrist.

"I don't want to do this, Remy. A piece of everyone I touch stays inside me and I don't have room for another crazy telepath."

* * *

Warren sensed Candy squeezing his arm as they watched Sebastian Shaw take the microphone on stage.

"Good evening everyone. I want to thank all of you for attending and supporting the crucially important work of the man we are honoring tonight, Charles Xavier."

Shaw paused while Xavier wheeled over. Applause rippled through the pavilion. Sebastian regarded his audience and began again.

"The Hellfire Club has always stood for continuity and stability. We are stewards of providence. Our job is to continue to steer our world towards an ever more promising future. Of course, there is no proven way to predict what is to come."

Shaw's volume increased as he went on.

"But we must do our utmost to examine what is happening today and envision how it will affect tomorrow. Right now a growing number of extremist voices – I'm sure you've heard them – are calling for a bleak, brutal future. These extremists – human and mutant – talk of war. This war they are planning will destroy the stability of our nations and eliminate our way of life. Charles Xavier has a different message – one of peace and understanding. In Xavier's tomorrow those with an expressed 'X' gene and those without will work together to address our shared challenges and achieve greater prosperity for all. I advise each of you to listen."

Shaw adjusted the stand and aimed the microphone at Charles. Xavier beamed benevolently.

"I appreciate your warm and gracious welcome immensely. The Xavier Institute needs friends and allies. I did not prepare a speech. I simply want to make clear to anyone here who is uncertain: Mutants are humans. Every year more research provides evidence that normal human beings and mutants have lived together for millennia. In the past we were labeled witches or demons. But we are brothers and sisters, parents and children. All of us are people. There are mutants who pose a significant danger, just as there are normal human criminals and terrorists. Most of us want nothing more than to live like everyone else, to be granted the opportunity to contribute our experiences and abilities to build a better society. Thank you."

Candy clapped heartily. "You should be up there," Southern cooed in Warren's ear.

The cheering gradually dwindled. Shaw raised the microphone. "I would like to introduce someone now that many of you are already familiar with. She's performed at the Guggenheim and BAM and so many other places it would be ridiculous for me to list them. Tonight, in the spirit of the Xavier Institute and its goal of acceptance and integration, she is letting the world know she is a mutant. I give you Alison Blaire, the artist known as Dazzler."

The chandeliers above went out. The space was dark.

"Let's go outside, Candy," Warren suggested.

"No, stay for a moment. She's fantastic."

A deep hum rumbled the foundation while a single golden sphere orbited the onlookers. A tall, reed-like woman pulled the microphone from its clip. The humming became louder, causing the orb to expand. Blazing trails grew behind it, like a toy comet, as it circled the room faster and faster. The singer's voice split into multiple harmonizing tones accompanied by a thumping, resonant rhythm. The ball of light exploded shooting out hundreds of thousands of spinning stars in every color of the spectrum. They bounced off the crystal walls, whizzing over the heads of the audience. Then the tiny suns converged in the center of the stage. Dazzler's shiny silver costume pulsated. Lyrics pouring from her warm bronze lips filled the hall.

"Do what you want. Do what you feel…"

Candy leaned into Warren's chest. Then she reached around his back under his wings. The blinding flashes were dizzying. They punctuated the words of the song.

"All you desire. It can be real…"

Where was Jean? Worthington wondered. He shut his eyes and saw her face. Her flaming irises burnt holes in his vision. When he raised his lids, a fiery ghost image of Jean remained.

"I have to go," he said, pulling away from Candy.

Warren walked out onto the roof. He stopped at the balustrade. A lone figure approached from his right.

"Don't like being manipulated, huh, bird boy?" The speaker's leather outfit accentuated her lean, muscular physique. A tattooed dark patch shaped like the rubber part of a riflescope ringed her left eye. "I don't like it either. Those subsonic effects and tacky light tricks transmit subliminal commands, it's true."

"Who are you?" asked Angel.

"People call me Domino. I know who you are." She tipped a highball glass half full of amber liquid to her lips. Warren guessed it was scotch.

"So does everyone else in the city."

"How does your big rich daddy like the world knowing his princeling is a mutant?"

"That's none of your business."

"Oh yes it is." She crossed one leg in front of the other and flung her arm at the illuminated skyscrapers. "It's every mutant's business. Your father's company is developing a new Sentinel model. You've heard about it, right? Project Archangel?"

"I have no clue what you mean." His feathers prickled.

"They're more like aircraft. Maybe the design was based on you…" Vibrant bursts from Dazzler's fireworks inside streaked Domino's cheek. "The public's gonna love 'em," she continued. "They'll cause far less collateral damage. The drones will whoosh down from the clouds and eliminate troublesome mutants. No mess or anything…"

"How do you know all this?"

"A little birdy told me."

"Please."

"Don't worry, you'll find out. Soon enough." She drained her drink. "I could take care of the old bastard for you." She formed a gun with her free hand and pointed it at his chest. "I never miss."

"What? Don't even joke about that."

"I'm not joking. You'd control the company then. You're the only heir." Domino picked out an ice cube from her glass. "Let's find out how much Emma Frost likes ice."

She squinted her right eye and focused her blackened left on a distant target. The cube zinged out of her hand and ricocheted off the tile deck floor into the glass enclosure. Warren zeroed in on Emma who was dancing with Shaw. Frost looked around as if she were anticipating something. The glistening square bumped off the wall, hit a serving tray, bounced into the air and landed in the crevice of the pale blond's bodice.

"Yes!" Domino howled.

Emma shook for a microsecond, but promptly caught herself. Smiling at Sebastian, she acted as if nothing had happened.

"She is frosty," said Domino, slurping on another cube. "I need a refill." She started back towards the pavilion. "You should consider my offer." She blew the ice she'd been sucking into her palm and tossed it skyward. "I never miss."

Warren tried to go after her but Candy came outside and blocked him. An ice pebble pinged the top of her head.

"Ouch! Where the hell did that come from?" Southern looked up expecting to see hail or sleet.

Worthington couldn't suppress a chuckle.

"Did you?" Candy rubbed her crown.

"No, no. It was the woman who just passed, her name's Domino. She's at the bar. I should go talk to her…" Warren's voice trailed off. His face froze.

"Warren?" Candy waved her hand in front of him. "What is it? What are you looking at?"

"Jean."

"Jean Grey? The telekinetic girl?" Candy turned to search for the new arrival. "Emma must be pleased. Where is she?"

"In front of the stage."

Dazzler's strobing light bursts lit up the shimmering black sequin mini Jean Grey wore underneath her adamantium fiber vest. The glittering halo from the mirrored disks sewn into the dress' high collar intensified the redness of her hair, which was tightly bound in a chignon. She greeted Professor Xavier, Storm and Dr. McCoy; then she reached for a young man he didn't recognize. The guy had to be her date. If he was a mutant there were no obvious signs. He just looked like a regular college kid in a cheap suit.

"Oh, interesting…" said Candy. "Great dress. Updated sixties mod, love it. But why didn't she check that techie flak jacket? Is she attempting some weird sporty look?"

Emma Frost drew Jean and her companion aside and introduced them to Shaw, Contessa Gallio, Leland, and a short round woman in green velvet.

"She thinks she has to wear that vest," Angel explained.

Grey laughed at something the plump woman in green said. Leland and the Contessa left the group and retreated to the area by the stage. Jean rested her hand on her male friend's shoulder.

"Why? Does it do something?" Candy circled to face him.

"It holds her down." Warren's gaze remained locked on Jean.

Candy felt invisible. "Is she the reason you're not on good terms with the X-Men?"

"It doesn't matter anymore. She barely remembers me."

Angel's sight drifted to Jean's slim hips and then slowly traveled upwards. His breathing suddenly ceased. She was staring directly at him. Her eyes flickered.

Candy spun back around and watched Jean lead her date towards the roof deck. "She barely remembers you. You're sure about that, Warren? Because she's coming over here."


	33. The Key

**Chapter 32 – The Key**

Remy LeBeau appreciated the style of the snug, clubby, dimly illuminated cocktail lounge. Betsy Braddock was seated in a booth in the far corner. Examining the place as he strolled along, he noticed a small portrait mounted on the crimson silk-draped wall. It was old - late eighteenth century he'd wager. Having grown-up a scion of the Thieves' Guild in New Orleans, Remy at twenty-two had acquired a centenarian's familiarity with antiques. The pretty young woman in the painting had green-gold eyes and red ringlets gathered loosely on top of her head. Her coloring and restrained expression reminded him of Jean Grey.

The bartender, he assumed, was a relic from the nineteen sixties. The server's brow wrinkled with suspicion as Remy passed by the long walnut counter. The three of them were the only people there. From the pitch of her shoulders, LeBeau could tell Betsy's legs were crossed.

"Remy. So nice to see you." She flicked the lime wedge resting on the lip of her empty glass onto the table. The green rind contrasted vividly with her plum-hued purse.

"I'm sorry it took me awhile. I'll order you something more." He waved to the bartender.

"No, Remy, I'll take care of it." Without a moment's delay, the barman appeared at her side. His eagerness had a disturbingly juvenile quality. "Jimmy, another drink, if you would," Betsy requested. "And a bourbon, a good one, please, for my friend."

"Bourbon was exactly what I wanted." Remy winked at her.

Betsy picked up her handbag to allow the barman to wipe the surface; then he left to make their drinks.

"What happened to Rogue, the little X-Girl?" she asked LeBeau.

Remy relaxed into the seat. "I told her it was past her bedtime and sent her home."

"You're lying."

"She's somewhere in this establishment. Practically the entire faculty of the Xavier Institute is on the roof. I ain't the only one she knows at this party…"

Betsy's thoughts cut him off. _Can you hear me, Remy?_

He slid nearer. "Why are we going psycho so fast? Nobody else is around. Everyone is watching that Dazzler show."

"Well, there's my friend Jimmy." Betsy shot the bartender a glance; then she aimed her violet eyes at LeBeau. _But, if I wish, he won't remember you at all. He'll believe I was alone, enjoying a couple of gin and tonics before rejoining the games upstairs._

_So this conversation ain't happening._

_Perhaps. _

_What about non-living observers? Are there cameras in here?_

_No. I've checked it out, nothing in the lounge. Besides Jimmy._

"So we can talk like normal folks," he argued softly. "I mean, you can fix it, even if somebody does catch something…"

_Remy, you've changed. You used to like being inside my head._

"Betsy, let's do better than that. You never allowed me to see a thing. You're the one inside my head, Mam'selle."

"And you've got such a thick skull." _Why are you worried? You know I can't probe too deeply._

"Maybe I want ol' Jimmy as my witness too…" LeBeau's whisper faded into silence.

The bartender returned and laid napkins and drinks on the table. Remy anticipated sampling the smoky fluid. As the older man retreated to his station, he sent Remy a distinctly hostile look. Gambit smiled.

Betsy raised her gin and tonic. "To old friends."

"Sure. Old friends." LeBeau sipped the whiskey. "Why did you ask me down here? I know you find me fascinating and all, but you've always been so…businesslike."

_I want to know why you're here._

"You know why. I'm looking for that psi I told you about - Mastermind."

Braddock's sight shifted abruptly to the double doors at the entrance to the lounge. _Wait a minute. Someone is coming…_

"Who's coming?" asked Remy.

_No, sorry, I was wrong. There was a group, in one of the elevators_…

He put down his drink. "You all right? Had too much gin?"

_I'm fine, old friend._ A wide grin spread across her face._ Remy, if you answer a few questions for me, I'll tell you about Mastermind._

"Okay. An exchange."

She rubbed clean a circle on her tall frosted cocktail. _What do Charles Xavier and Magneto know about this place?_

"Hi everybody!" It was Rogue.

Betsy whitened with surprise. "What the bloody?" she cried aloud._ Why didn't I sense her, Remy? What's going on?_

Betsy's reaction to Rogue's unexpected arrival signaled trouble to Jimmy. He skidded to the right of the portrait behind the bar and reached for something under the counter. Gambit bet it was a line to security. The server's attention jumped nervously from person to person. LeBeau calculated how much time it would likely take the old man to call the guards.

"I hate to bother y'all, Miss Bradley…Braddock, whatever, but this guy," Rogue pointed at Gambit "he's no good. He thinks he can just snap his fingers," the small, gloved girl snapped to provide emphasis, "and you and I, and anybody else he sweet-talks will do anything he says…"

_Do it now, Rogue._

Remy immediately regretted producing such a focused thought. Betsy read it instantly.

_Do? What is she going to…_

Rogue dashed the cool gin and tonic onto the floor and grabbed the hand that had drawn the circle. She pushed her unsheathed fingertip into Betsy's delicate wrist. The English girl's head fell onto Remy's shoulder. Jimmy picked up the security phone.

Gambit called to Rogue without speaking, knowing she would hear him in her mind. _Get the bartender, chére. We got three seconds._

Remy watched the X-Girl click into action. He'd never been able to discern precisely what color her eyes were – in an open rail car in the evening they were bluish-gray, yet in the morning on a frigid school day they looked greenish-brown. At this moment they were violet, like Betsy's, and upper crust English came from her lips.

"Jimmy, there's no need to alarm anyone," she said calmly, swinging her hips in an exact replication of Betsy's stride. "I'm so sorry I spilled the lovely drink you prepared." She approached the bar.

Security must have answered. "Guys, hold on," Jimmy communicated. He stretched the length of the receiver cord to meet 'Betsy' at the counter flap. "You sure?" he asked her.

"Yes, of course." She cocked her head.

"But where's that guy and the girl who came in…"

"I've been alone. Well, alone with you that is." Rogue gracefully reversed and rejoined Remy. "Sorry again about the mess."

Jimmy spoke into the phone, "It's nothing. I apologize. Yeah, Esteban…later."

LeBeau slung Braddock's unconscious body over his shoulder. He gave the purple clutch to Rogue. After consuming the remainder of its contents, he pocketed the glass from the bourbon.

_Bravo, chérie. Next priority - where's her room?_

_Not far…a turn at the end of the hall. But we can't go._

He halted near the exit. _Surveillance cameras? Where?_

_There's one between the elevators._

Rogue psychically transmitted the exact location of the device. A playing card flew into Gambit's right hand.

"Miss Braddock?" Jimmy lifted the counter flap and stepped out.

Rogue held Gambit's elbow. _Wait! If you wreck that thing, security will wonder why it's not working…_

_We can take care of that, easy._

Remy slipped from her grasp, parted the doors and flung a sizzling three of clubs at the electronic sensor, shattering it. Then he centered his sight on her; his fully charged irises glowed.

_In two minutes those guard dogs will show up to investigate. You're gonna drill them with the following: This was a malfunction. There's no reason to bother important people who get real pissed off when they're disturbed._

_Got it,_ she responded.

The weight of their victim was beginning to cause Remy significant discomfort. He paused halfway through the corridor; Rogue was not following.

_Come on, chére. You gonna take all night?_

_I'm coming. It's Jimmy. _She faced the bartender. "What is it?"

"Can you really help me?" He clenched his dishtowel.

"Yes," she replied. "And I will. I promise. Goodnight."

LeBeau rounded the corner and carried Betsy to the end of the next hallway. Rogue mentally instructed him to stop.

_This is the room?_ he asked, silently.

She rummaged through Betsy's handbag._ Yeah. Gimme one second to get the key._

_Those private enforcers will be here in less than twenty._

_I found it._

She unlocked the suite. It was lavish. The walls and upholstery were gold silk.

"I think we can use our vocal chords again," said Remy, while laying Braddock's long form on the bed. One of her legs fell to the floor through the slit in the side of her dress. "You better go out there now and deal with those security boys, Rogue." He caressed Betsy's calf as he re-adjusted her position.

"On my way, old friend." Betsy Braddock's high-toned accent chimed from across the room.

LeBeau whipped around. The tall British telepath stood by the door.

"What?" Gambit wondered audibly. Turning back, he went cold. Rogue's body was lying horizontal. Remy left the woman on the bed and advanced towards the one standing.

_Don't know who you're talking to? _ Her violet eyes flashed.

"Ain't no time for tricks." He lowered his voice and reached for her hair. "I'll always know you, chére." The black strands turned white as he let them loose.

He was looking at Rogue once more. She scowled at him. "Ain't no time to feel up unconscious girls!"

"You're the one I want to feel. When we're done tonight, maybe you let me." He stroked the diaphanous fabric of her sleeve.

"I've learned a whole lotta stuff about you from your good ol' pal Betsy over there. If you keep going like this," Rogue crunched his shirt collar with her gloved hand and pulled his face within a millimeter of her own, "I'll be the last thing you feel." She released him and walked into the hall.

* * *

_I hate telepaths, and I hate Remy LeBeau!_ Rogue yelled inside while she rushed through the corridor. She swore she would never touch another psi, especially one who was attracted to the same guy she was. Psychic feedback from her contact with Betsy was magnifying her emotions. It made her think back a year earlier to the first time Jean's surging, uncontrollable powers had forced the X-Men to take extreme measures.

The sensations she experienced the instant her fingertips grazed Jean's forehead were overwhelming; she was consumed by the blazing chaos within Grey's mind. Then, somehow, Rogue emerged and opened the connection Scott needed to communicate with their lost psychic teammate. Jean heard Scott speak amidst the cacophony roaring inside her head. She mentally followed his voice to a state of conscious control. Those moments seemed to last forever to Rogue. She felt Scott and Jean fall in love.

Throughout the months that followed, Rogue didn't know who she was. Her already heavy infatuation with Scott deepened, compounded by Grey's tenderness for him. And even stranger, and more difficult, was the way Rogue's heart dropped every time Jean laughed, or tossed her hair, or did a million other random things that quickened Summers' pulse. Rogue would never be certain of her true feelings again.

Now, she not only found Remy LeBeau hard to resist on her own, she also knew how seriously Betsy Braddock was affected by his rakish good looks and devilish charm. Plus, she knew definitively how much Remy had wanted to peel the clothes off that long-limbed lady passed out in the room she just left.

But being Betsy wasn't all bad. Braddock was confident and sophisticated, and possessed the primary elusive skill Rogue believed she herself lacked. Betsy knew how to be beautiful. She adored the woman she saw mirrored in others' eyes; she fed off the scintillating self-reflections that popped like flashbulbs in the minds around her. Rogue realized that was the key to beauty – knowing people wanted you.

She liked wielding Betsy's psychic powers as well. They were much easier to handle than Jean's. If she had touched Grey, the thoughts of everyone in the building would be buzzing between her ears. Betsy's perception wasn't anywhere near as expansive. Yet Braddock had honed her abilities; she could cut through the layers of her subjects' psyches like a skilled surgeon slicing flesh with a scalpel.

Two men came out of the elevator five feet ahead. One had the typical oversized muscles and meaty facial features of a highly paid security professional. The other seemed old for the job. He still had the frame of a big man, but his cheeks were slack and his posture stooped. Rogue focused her psionic energy and pierced his mind.

"Miss Braddock, why are you here?" The tone of the senior guard's inquiry was courteous and friendly.

Rogue found him familiar. She combed through Braddock's memories. His name skipped to the tip of her tongue. "Esteban, I should ask you the same question. Isn't all the excitement above? I'm actually on my way back up," she piped, using Betsy's inflection.

"The camera went out." The young, meaty guy shined a powerful flashlight beam at the smoldering crevice in the ceiling.

Esteban assessed the damage. "Did you see what happened?" He asked the woman he thought was Betsy Braddock.

"You mean that?" She pointed to the smoky remains. "Oh, it just fizzled out. Nothing to worry about."

"S'cuse me, Miss, but I see sabotage, and a fire hazard," said the thick-necked agent. "I'm contacting Shaw, Esteban. He told us to let him know the second we find anything unusual." He raised his stubby finger to his earpiece.

"That's my call, Mike," asserted Esteban.

"Yes sir," Mike acquiesced.

"It's simply old wiring." Her manner conveyed authority. "Tell Shaw if you want, but I'd wait until tomorrow. He's rather occupied with his guests tonight."

While speaking, she stared past Esteban into the elevator car. There was an isolated notch opposite the button strip and a seam vertically dividing the rear panels she hadn't noticed before. _That side opens too…_

Simultaneously, the reason why the notch was there and why the guards were so concerned about suspicious activity on the floor became clear. A very small number of special platinum keys fit into the hole. Once the panels split, there was a passageway which led to a large room behind a set of grand ebony doors – the secret chamber of the Inner Circle.

"Okay, Mike, we're done. Miss Braddock, want a lift upstairs?" offered Esteban.

"That would be nice. Oh no." She checked her purse. "Forgot my lipstick. Thank you anyway."

Esteban appeared genuinely disappointed. There was a haunting sadness in his eyes that Rogue recognized. She'd seen it in Jimmy's forlorn expression and the stony look of the cloakroom clerk. "Enjoy the rest of the evening." The closing elevator doors clipped his words.

Rogue reentered Betsy's suite. Remy was leaning back in a chair with his legs stretched out. He shuffled a card deck using only his right hand. She knew during her brief absence he'd gone through every drawer and evaluated every item in the room.

"What'd you program the guard dogs to believe?" He suspended the flow of the cards.

"Don't worry. They're not gonna do anything." Rogue studied the wall.

LeBeau tucked the deck inside one of his coat pockets. "Good," he said, getting up. "Let's move on." He walked over to the bed and seized a well-stuffed armchair. He repositioned it and motioned for her to sit down. "Talk to me, chére. Tell me what Betsy knows."

Rogue met his luminous ruby gaze. "We're changing the plan. There's someone at this party I gotta stop. Tonight."

"What are you saying, Rogue?"

"That guy Jimmy, the bartender, how old do you think he is?"

"I don't know. Sixty, I guess. What's the big deal 'bout that?" LeBeau came closer.

"He's twenty-five. There's this woman. I met her up there earlier. Her name's Selene, the uh, Contessa di..."

"The Contessa di Monteluce. I saw her; she seemed to like you."

"She's a vampire or something. She drained his life-force! She did it to the coat check guy too, and one of the security guards, and who knows how many others…" Rogue snapped her fingers. "I'll take her life away."

"I'm sure you absorbed this intel, or got it from the poor fellas' heads; so, it must be true. But you can't go commando and take on this vampire mutant by yourself. The lady has a lotta people behind her. I'll help you, Rogue. We can bring down this whole place. But we gotta do things right. One step at a time… Sit down, chére."

Rogue slowly sank into the cushioned seat. Remy reassumed his extended pose from before.

"Now, what is Mam'selle Braddock doing at the Hellfire Club?"

Rogue sifted through countless impressions, insights and recollections from Betsy Braddock's recent personal history. Within seconds, related fragments began to coalesce, forming coherent scenes and events. "She's working for a secret group called Excalibur," she explained. "It's part of British Intelligence. They assigned her to investigate the Contessa, that guy Shaw, and the rest of the Inner Circle."

"The Inner Circle?"

"They run this club. There's three other members: Leland, he's that fat guy with the red beard…" Her brow beaded with sweat.

"He was with the Contessa."

"There's a man named Donald Pierce…and they just let in Emma Frost. Betsy scanned Leland's mind at the party." Rogue's temples throbbed, but she continued. "The Circle had some kind of ceremony last night and gave Frost a key…made of platinum."

"A platinum key, huh? I wonder what it opens." Remy pulled in his legs. "What about Mastermind?"

"Show me what he looks like."

LeBeau concentrated on his visual memory of Mastermind. Images of a short, gray-haired, older man filled Rogue's consciousness.

"Betsy saw him. He was with Emma Frost in the cocktail lounge. His name is Jason…"

Her pupils flitted from one spot to the next. There was too much information streaming into her brain. Was her skull about to crack? Stumbling to her feet, she discovered she couldn't see what was in front of her.

"That's enough. You can stop." Remy tried to steady her. "Take a rest, chére."

"No, I've figured it out! The key opens the chamber. The Black Queen is there…and Shaw and Emma and Mastermind and…" Droplets of blood pooled under her nose. Her eyes shut.

He shook her. "Rogue!"

"Oh my god, Remy…" She focused on him, finally. "They want Jean. They want to use her...to control the power of the Phoenix…" Tears scrawled across her face. "Everything will burn!"

"We'll stop them. Calm down." He held her tightly.

"But she's here. Jean is here…" she rasped.

"Then we better get back to the party."

* * *

It was all Xi'an's idea. She fished the crimson invitation from the amorphous pile of flyers, reading lists, research papers, and take-out menus smothering the surface of Jean's desk.

"Jean, what's this?" Xi'an unfolded the card.

"Oh, I meant to toss that in the recycling…" Jean left Peter sitting alone, cross-legged, on the couch. "Gosh, look at all the junk I've left lying around," she said, moving towards Xi'an. Half the papers on the desk rose into the air and floated in a clump to the recycling bin. The others filed themselves neatly into stacks.

Xi'an maintained her grip on the invite emblazoned with an 'H' and a pitchfork. "You're not recycling this. You're going."

"What?" asked Jean. "To the Hellfire Club on Friday? But, I, we, have too much work…"

Peter stood. "Xi'an, I thought you were getting the menu for Rosario's. Aren't you girls hungry?"

Jean glanced a red, white and green printed edge among the papers she'd discarded. In the blink of an eye, the menu flew from the recycling bin into Peter's hands.

"All right then, I suppose I'm the one ordering tonight." He returned to the couch and grabbed his phone from the coffee table. "What sort of pizza shall we have? Any ideas? Basil and fresh tomatoes?" Neither woman acknowledged him. "Anchovies and hot peppers?"

"You have to go to this party. It's for your Professor." Xi'an's pupils searched Jean's face. "I mean, what could be more important? You want the whole peaceful co-existence thing, don't you?"

"I do. But, I'm not ready to see everyone yet. I haven't told the Professor I stopped taking M56."

"Well, it's time he found out. You can show him you don't need it."

"Yes…delivery to Hamilton Residence Hall…Cheers." Peter's volume increased. "And don't forget, double the hot peppers…"

Xi'an leapt to the couch. "What are you doing?" she yelled.

"Goodbye." Peter ended the call. "Yes?" he responded, his guise purely innocent. "Something wrong?"

"You monster! Tell me you did not order a pizza with hot peppers and anchovies!"

"If I didn't order what you wanted, it's your own fault. Neither you nor Jean answered me when I asked what you'd like."

Xi'an snatched the phone from his hands. "I can't believe you would…"

"It's okay." Jean laughed. "He'd already hung up." Giggles cut off her words. "Just a joke…"

Peter smiled sheepishly. "Come on, girls, you have to pay attention to me every so often…"

Xi'an threw the phone onto the couch and fell onto her fiancé, planting kisses all over his head. "Is that enough attention?"

"What a ridiculous question. You know I can only want more of that."

"I have a brilliant idea." Xi'an rolled onto the other cushion. "Peter, you are going to take Jean to the fabulous gala at the Hellfire Club this weekend."

"Wait a minute. That does sound fabulous. But, as far as I am concerned, there's only one event that matters this weekend. We are going to hear the Academy of Ancient Music perform Bach's Brandenburg concertos at Carnegie Hall."

"That's right," seconded Jean. "We have to, so we can visualize the theoretical models for Steiner's midterm."

"The Hellfire event is Friday evening and the concert is a Saturday matinée. There's no conflict." Xi'an settled deeper into the fabric.

"There is for you, Xi'an. You have class Friday night," stated Jean.

"That's why you and Peter should go."

"We can't go without you. Scott will be there. What if I need you both?"

"I'll take a cab down, right afterwards."

"Your class isn't over until nine thirty." Grey turned away from the couch.

"So you two arrive late, at nine o'clock. You guys hang out for like thirty, forty minutes; I'll be there." Xi'an got up. "Just in case, we'll have a code. Something Peter can text me quickly, and I'll drop everything and leave. Pick a number."

"Thirteen," said Jean, quietly.

"Thirteen. Perfect." Xi'an gripped Grey's left hand and pulled her around. "Jean, you'll be fine."

Xi'an took hold of Peter as well. He and Jean then interlocked fingers. The three formed a circle. They closed their eyes. As their heart rates slowed to a common rhythm, their thoughts melded into a unified inner voice.

_Fear and anger do not exist. Not for us. _

Jean's feet rose six inches off the floor. Her psychokinetic energy flowed through the other two, lifting them into the air.

_We live up here. We choose what we feel._

Xi'an added a line.

_We can do anything…_

* * *

Jean squeezed Peter's palm in the elevator on the way to the glass pavilion on the roof of the Hellfire Club. She was already sensing many of the people she was about to see.

Wyngarde smiled. "You look wonderful, Jean." He reciprocated the pressure. "That frock is spectacular."

"Thanks. I give Xi'an all the credit. I didn't even know who Anaïs Lynn was. I just wish I didn't have to wear this thing with it." A fleck of dried leaf sailed off the front of her weighted vest.

"You could leave it in the cloakroom. You've been fine without it, with Xi'an and I, at least." Thumping bass vibrations leaked into the carriage. They were about to arrive.

"Peter, do you want to watch Professor Xavier's head explode?"

"Not particularly." He couldn't help but grin.

"Then I think I should keep it on."

They encountered Scott immediately. Summers was talking to a lanky, slightly spasmodic, middle-aged man. Mentally filtering out the extra sounds, Jean grasped scraps of their conversation.

"Look, Mr. Pierce, I can't tell you anything more about the Blackbird." Scott noticed her. "Excuse me."

Heat from the atomically powered orbs firing behind Cyclops' crystal lenses warmed her face. "Hi, Scott," she called. She was pleased to see him, which was surprising.

"Jean," he clasped her to his chest. "I didn't think you were going to come." He smelled like wine.

"Scott…" She pulled away. "This is Peter Wyngarde." Wyngarde came forward. "He's a friend from the University."

"We're in the same physics seminar." Peter spoke forcefully to be heard over the heavy dance beat.

Summers' expression calcified. "Okay." His upper arms tensed.

"Where is everyone?" asked Jean, straining to sustain a casual tone.

"The Professor and Hank and Ororo are over there." Summers indicated a large area ahead lit by multicolored trails of light that swooshed and swirled to the booming percussion. "And Rogue's around, somewhere, with Gambit… I've been trying to find her. Let's see, who else… Oh, yeah, Angel's here, with that girl, Candy Southern."

Jean and Peter zigzagged through the crowd skirting the stage. A shining performer sang and danced upon the platform. Grey was aware Scott was tracing them.

The audience parted a few meters in. Jean came to a halt; the bald pate of Charles Xavier loomed before her. Ororo and Hank flanked his wheelchair like royal sentries protecting the sovereign. The loud music became muted, as if it emanated from a distant location.

"We weren't expecting you." Charles' words resounded from all directions. "This is a welcome surprise."

"I'm very happy you're here." Ororo's saffron-colored sarong brushed Jean's shoulder as Munroe hugged her.

Jean returned the embrace. "I'm happy too. I miss everyone."

"Great to see you, Jean." Beast's affectionate grasp, as always, almost knocked her to the floor. "I saw Dr. Corbeau last week. He told me you posed a very provocative theory during his presentation to your class."

"I guess I did. Peter was there too." Jean extended her arm, ushering Wyngarde into view. "Please meet my friend Peter Wyngarde, from school."

"Hello, Peter." Xavier greeted him and then gestured towards the Windrider and Beast. "Ororo Munroe and Dr. Hank McCoy."

Storm's braids whirled as she spun off a strong current which buffeted Peter, practically blowing him across the room. He lowered his arm from protecting his face and trepidly offered his hand. "I have great respect for the X-Men."

Ororo accepted, yet remained rigid. Jean admired Peter's ability to act natural, despite his palpable nervousness.

"So, you're in Jake Steiner's seminar as well. How do you like it?" Beast inquired.

"Steiner's the reason I came to the States to study," answered Wyngarde. "Well, he's one of them... Dr. Corbeau really amazed everybody. It's hard to accept Object 13 exists."

"Our universe is truly bizarre," Hank remarked.

Jean felt Charles observing her. She turned to see her body blazing within his obsidian eyes. His thoughts entered her consciousness.

_Have you been taking the M56 compound?_

_I don't need it anymore, _she replied._ I feel more in control than ever. You can see that, can't you?_

_I can barely look at you, Jean. Your psychic aura is blinding. _

_Professor, I came tonight to support you. If you think I should leave…_

Emma Frost interrupted them. "Please forgive me, Professor Xavier. Jean, I'm Emma Frost. It's marvelous you're here." Frost's ice blue irises also filled with reflected flames. But she didn't look away or even blink, more than once or twice. "A number of people would very much like to meet you. Join me?"

Jean was eager to go. "Sure, but I have a friend…"

"Who's your friend?"

"Peter Wyngarde," Jean responded. Peter presented himself.

"Come, Peter."

Jean perceived Emma psionically projecting their forms ahead of their actual positions. People cleared the way long before they needed to. The corridor through the crowd terminated at a group of four gathered by the north wall of the pavilion. On the far side of the glass, Jean glimpsed a wondrous, illuminated forest gleaming against a backdrop of twinkling towers. Someone out there was watching her…

Emma tapped a tall, broad, man with dark hair and sculpted sideburns. "Sebastian Shaw, let me introduce Jean Grey."

Shaw's inky eyebrows peaked. "Well, you are lovely, Jean. Especially in person. I hope you and your guest enjoy yourselves tonight."

"And this is Selene Gallio, the Contessa di Monteluce." Emma's manner was guarded while presenting the ash-white Contessa. Shaw's nose bridge creased.

"You are the courageous Miss Grey," said the Contessa, in a papery whisper. "The first mutant to attend the University." Jean was disturbed to find her reflection burning in Selene's murky stare. It meant the strange older woman, like Emma Frost, was telepathic to some degree. The Hellfire Club was swimming with psychics.

"I'm not the first." Jean dropped her chin to avoid looking at Gallio directly. "Professor Xavier actually taught there a long time ago. The difference is everybody knows about me."

A stout, freckly man with a beard stepped over. "Hello. I'm Harry Leland," he announced, shaking her hand heartily. "And here's Irene Pawley." Leland smiled at the fleshy woman to his right.

"You are darling, honey," the big lady chirped in a sunny Southern accent. Jean imagined Ms. Pawley had barely been able to stuff herself into her constrictive green gown. "It's delightful to meet you." A large emerald rose and fell upon her ample bosom while she spoke. "What's your boyfriend's name?" She beamed at Peter.

"Oh, he's not my boyfriend." A shallow laugh escaped Jean's lips. "This is Peter Wyngarde."

A black satin glove grabbed Grey's wrist. "Don't think I don't know who you really are," hissed the Contessa. "I could never forget you, Juliana, fiery one."

"I don't understand…" Jean backed into Peter.

Selene eyed Wyngarde, but continued speaking to Jean. "You are blinded by your own flames, Juliana. So bright, yet cannot see…"

"My dear Contessa," Harry Leland cut in. "You've given us another remarkable performance tonight." He pressed Selene's sleeve. "Miss Grey, you should know that was spontaneous verse. The Contessa is an exceptional artist. Shaw, wasn't that spellbinding?"

"Truly." Shaw moved to Selene's other side. He didn't appear to be amused.

"Ah, there's that other young fellow you were interested in - the one with the red sunglasses." Harry linked arms with Gallio, who let go of Jean.

"Yes. He's very nice. I like him. And the boy with the wings…" Selene permitted Leland to steer her back towards the stage, where Scott was talking to Xavier, Hank and Ororo.

Jean laid her hand on Peter's shoulder. She felt vaguely disoriented.

"You okay, honey?" Irene's sugary drawl seemed oddly familiar. "Selene Gallio has more bats in the belfry than all the lunatics at Bellevue."

Peter chuckled. His spirit made Jean smile, though she didn't get what was funny. The pretty lights outside drew her attention once more to the roof deck and the person who was looking at her. His gaze was gliding just above her chest. She caught his eyes. It was Warren.

"Peter, let's check out the roof." She and Wyngarde parted from the others and walked through the glass doors.

"I'm quite impressed." Peter marveled at the glowing baubles strung through the trees and the shimmering skyscrapers. "It isn't even cold."

Jean slowed to a standstill. What was she doing? Warren was definitely with someone - the fabulous Candy Southern no less. She tugged Peter's jacket. "This place is too weird. Maybe we should go."

"You're saying that because Warren Worthington over there is staring at you. Xi'an told me you liked him."

"I never said anything..."

"Well, it's quite obvious. You freaked out when you saw that magazine story."

"You know, Irene Pawley reminds me of Xi'an."

"Uh, Ms. Pawley's twice her size. Xi'an would not appreciate that comparison."

"No, of course not, they're total opposites. It's ridiculous. I'm clearly going crazy. Let's leave…"

"Too late," said Peter, as a winged man in an expertly tailored suit approached them, trailed by a curly-haired woman wearing a full-skirted turquoise dress.

"Hi, Jean." Warren didn't reach for her.

"Hi, Warren," replied Jean, in the most nonchalant voice she could muster. "This is my friend Peter Wyngarde."

"Hello." Angel shook Peter's outstretched hand.

A flurry of turquoise taffeta preceded Candy's incursion. "Hi, Jean, Peter, I'm Candy Southern, Warren's friend whom he doesn't bother introducing."

"I'm fascinated." Peter greeted Candy enthusiastically. "I read your articles all the time."

"Really? We can discuss them inside. I'm ready to find out if these people have any decent champagne." Southern motioned widely, attempting to usher the four of them indoors.

"I'm fine out here, Candy. You go ahead." Warren's sight never left Jean.

"I don't think I've had good champagne in far too long." Peter sidled over to Southern. "Jean, shall I bring you anything?"

Grey remained focused on Angel. "Yes… I mean, no… No thanks." The sharp ticks of their heels on the tile flooring soon faded. Presently all Jean could hear was the wind playing with the lighted tree branches.

"The view is better by the railing." Warren waited to move.

"Show me." She followed him to the balustrade. The gilded pyramids crowning the early twentieth century monoliths of Wall Street glimmered less than half a mile north. "I've been here for a month and a half and I still can't believe how beautiful it is."

"There's a lot more. The harbor is only two blocks south, then to the west is Liberty Island…"

"It's wonderful."

"It's nothing. You have to see it from the air." His wings arched higher.

She sensed an updraft caressing her skin. It chilled the nape of her neck, at the base of her tightly twisted coiffure. "I've wanted to talk to you ever since that night at the mansion."

"Scott explained things earlier. Guess you've saved my life twice." Tiny glints from the urban star field danced in his eyes. "I'd like to thank you somehow. Let me show you the city."

"I'd love that, but I shouldn't." Leaning the small of her back against the cool marble, she gripped the shelf of the wide, carved banister. "I'm very busy at school - tons of work."

"But, you're a telepath… Why spend time going to classes?"

"The Professor thinks it's better to learn things this way."

"What do you think?" The strengthening breeze jostled his hair. "Do you like the University?"

"I don't know. It's great being here. The city is so interesting. But aside from that guy Peter you met, and his girlfriend Xi'an, the other students all hate me."

"They're idiots."

"They're frightened." A sudden gust gave her goosebumps.

"I'm not frightened." Angel's long pinion feathers extended as his wings tested the currents. "Jean, we can leave, right now."

"I can't, I've got this vest on…"

"Take it off."

"Aren't you with Candy…"

"I don't care about her. I mean, not like that. Not like you."

Her fingers slipped from the stone groove as the deck floor fell away. Unmoored, she drifted closer. "Warren, they're all watching us."

Jean felt someone new on the roof. He was fifty feet away, alone in the shadows. He had scaled the exterior instead of tolerating security and his knuckles were sore from stabbing ionic capitals and classical pediments on the way up with his adamantium claws.


	34. Trust Me

**Chapter 33 – Trust Me**

Rogue followed Remy to the emergency exit at the top of the stairwell to the roof pavilion. With two quick taps he frazzled the pinpoint connections to the alarm system. Then he used a thin strip of metal to pry open the door. Rogue questioned him telepathically.

_How'd you know how to do that?_

_Shaw Industries sequential interlock mechanism, model number 1881c. Standard equipment._

They slipped inside and passed the cloakroom. Rogue didn't give the aged attendant time to realize what he was about to forget; she masked her movement and LeBeau's entirely. They lingered by the wall adjacent to the coat check. The scene in the pavilion had changed since they left. Spacey vocals came from the stage; streaks of light zooming to a pumping beat spiraled up to the rafters. Rogue and Remy sifted through the shifting groups of elite attendees.

_You still sensing Jean?_ asked Remy._ I don't see her._

_I'll find out where she is._ Rogue threw wide her psychic reception. A tidal wave of overlapping internal monologues crashed against the music; an onslaught of images swamped her brain. The flood of visions, words and feelings flowing from the crowd made her dizzy. Then a blinding mass of psionic energy eclipsed everything. Rogue instantly identified the source as Jean Grey. _She's on the roof deck._

_With Mastermind?_

Rogue scrutinized each presence in Jean's vicinity. _I don't think so. I'm not picking up that old creep at all. _

_Maybe he can block other psis._

_That's possible. I guess. I think the coat guy's job is to get a look at everyone. I'm scanning him._

_And?_

_He didn't see that weirdo come in. Jean did bring someone. I've never seen him before._

Rogue sent Remy the cloakroom clerk's impressions of a slender young man with brown hair and gray eyes dressed in a simple black suit.

_Might be him, chére, Mastermind is an illusionist_.

_So he can make people believe he's a totally different person…_ The upsetting realization that she might be about to confront a mutant whose deceptive abilities were on par with Mystique's began to sink in. _I hate mutants who do that._

_You were just doing it yourself._

_Don't remind me, Remy._

_Come on, chére. You're having a good time. You must be enjoying Betsy's powers some. You know what we could do…while you still have 'em… _

Remy pulled her close. His luminous irises shrank to slim crimson rims as his pupils dilated. Rogue got lost in his deep stare. Then she felt his bare fingertips touch her face. He lifted her chin and pressed his lips to hers.

She blinked repeatedly and jerked away, which dispelled the fantasy kiss. _Stop it, Remy!_

_It's like the real thing, no? And nobody ends up in a coma. 'Course that would never stop me, if you ever said you wanted…_

_I'm gonna drop you this second! Just to shut you up!_

_Pas de plaisir..._ Remy went back to scoping the crowd. _There's Mr. Leland with your Professor and Beast and Storm…the Contessa's talking to Cyclops…_

A sinister smile stretched Selene Gallio's pallid skin to her jaw line. Rogue didn't like the way she ogled Scott.

_Leland and the Contessa have those platinum keys, don't they?_ asked LeBeau.

_They carry them around all the time._

_Fat man keeps it in his vest pocket. He's fidgeting with it. _

Rogue turned and saw Remy studying the bronze key to Betsy's room. He rubbed the design stamped into the bow – an encircled letter 'H' with a pitchfork crossing its bar. Rogue knew what he was thinking.

_Don't do it, Remy. Don't switch those keys. Leland will notice the difference._

_They look different - different colored metal. But I bet they feel the same. _

Rogue glanced at Leland. He patted his pocket again briefly, while noting the Contessa's pre-occupation with Summers. Rogue thought Scott seemed uneasy. He leaned right to see the bar area beyond Gallio's angular shape. After mouthing a curt 'goodbye,' he left and cut through the audience towards the outdoor deck.

_Something's up with Scott_, Rogue told LeBeau.

_He's heading to the roof, probably wants to see Jean. She still out there?_

Rogue homed in on Jean. _Yeah, she's there. She's talking to Warren. They're alone together…this could be bad._

Rogue grew more anxious as Scott exited the pavilion. The Contessa was watching him too, straining her thin neck to clock his trajectory. Selene's overt interest annoyed Leland. He took hold of her satin-gloved forearm and led her off in the opposite direction.

_Well, at least Scott got away from her. _Rogue's hands formed fists. Gallio's features contorted with fury. Rogue penetrated Leland's mind to listen in as the Contessa seared his ears with hushed invectives.

"How dare you drag me away like some troublesome child! Such arrogance!" The Contessa's harsh tone grated Rogue's already pulpy mood.

Leland was apologetic. "Selene…"

"Address me properly!" she demanded.

"Pardon me, my queen. But you are not your best tonight. You've been confusing our guests." He maintained their progress, steering the dark lady past the bulk of those assembled.

"Don't be deceived. I am not a fool! You cannot replace me, Harry," Gallio seethed. "I created the Inner Circle. When you and Shaw and Jason and that swollen-headed little slut Emma are long dead, rotting in the earth, I will remain the Black Queen!" The two were rapidly approaching the section where Rogue and Remy were standing.

_So, the Contessa likes younger men. Here's my entrée, chére. Let's say hello. _Remy started walking.

_You're crazy! You remember what she can do? Don't go near her! _Rogue quickened her pace. _That guy Jean came with is here somewhere. We gotta find out if he's really Mastermind! Remy, don't do this…_

"Good evening," LeBeau addressed the angry, thin-lipped woman and her stout squire.

"And you are...?" Leland's brows lifted.

Rogue stepped in. "This is, uh, Gambit."

The Contessa's expression altered dramatically. "Again we meet, young one." She aimed a hideous grin at Rogue.

"Gambit? That's what you call yourself? Humph." Leland snorted.

"I'm Remy to my friends." A thin rectangular piece of paper popped into his fingers. "My card."

Leland reached to accept, but LeBeau yanked it aloft. The edges lit up, drawing everyone's attention except Rogue's. She'd seen this trick before. A miniature fireworks display burst from Remy's raised right hand, while his left was busy performing a separate act.

"Pour Madame." He offered the sizzling card to Selene. The glimmering sparks cooled to smoke trails the moment her bony fingers pinched the base.

"How amusing." A growl stirred beneath the Contessa's crackly tone.

"That's an interesting talent." Leland pressed his vest pocket. Detecting the contours of a small hard object within, he assured himself all was well.

"We gotta go talk to someone. Bye." Rogue grabbed LeBeau by his coat and led him off. The music became louder as they neared the stage. _What are you gonna do with that key you swiped, Remy?_

_What do you think, chére? You told me you wanted to take out that vampire witch. Getting into that secret room is part of the job._

Then Rogue saw what had likely prompted Scott to look for Jean. She and Warren had unloaded their respective dates. A young man with brown hair wearing a black suit sat at the bar next to a red-faced Candy Southern.

_Remy, it's him – the guy who came in with Jean._

_You check him out. _Gold and sapphire beams from Dazzler's performance striped Remy's cheek. _I'm gonna use this key. Now's my opportunity to get into that place and I ain't missing it._

_But they'll catch you._

_Not with everything going on here._ He reversed towards the emergency exit he'd disarmed. _If something happens… _He tapped his right temple. _You let me know._ _I'll be back before you miss me._

_Remy…_

_Trust me, chérie._

* * *

Flames licked the edges of her irises as energy from her levitating body ran up and down his spine and cascaded through his feathers. "Jean, I know they're watching us." Warren's breath was shallow. "But we're not doing anything wrong."

Wolverine lurked in the periphery of his vision. Logan was moving in from the western part of the roof. Scott Summers rested against a tree merely five meters away.

"We're not doing anything…yet." Jean's hair unfurled upwards as her chignon came undone.

He stared into her flickering gaze. "They have no right to bind your wings."

She grasped his shoulders. Her thoughts whirred in his mind like the wind.

_My wings are made of fire…I could torch the world._

"But why would you ever do that?" His lungs felt constricted; his words thinned. "Xavier could make every person here commit suicide…" He closed his hands around her waist. "Scott could take off his glasses and kill us by sight, Storm could call up a hurricane and drown the entire city. Just because you have the power to destroy doesn't mean you'll do it."

Her long red tresses stretched into the air. The straps crossing the front of her vest unbuckled and the zipper split down the center. He sensed increasing heat through the black sequin material of her dress. Her voice echoed.

_Warren, I don't know who I am…_

_I know who you are. _A café table crashed to the ground, knocked over by Angel's spreading wingspan._ Come with me. _

* * *

"Well, that's hard not to notice. Poor Candy."

Scott glanced backwards, but he recognized the speaker before he connected with her light-blue, almost silver eyes. "Why do you care, Emma?"

"Candy's my friend. She's at the bar crying into a glass of champagne. Actually, I fear she's moved on to scotch." Frost strolled to Summers' side. "It's strange, she never mentioned Jean Grey. I don't think she had any idea Warren was in love with her."

"In love?" Scott straightened. "You have to understand someone before you can love them." Shifting his sight from Emma, he refocused on the two figures by the railing. "He knows nothing about her."

"Whereas you know everything." Emma's icy regard cooled the joints in his neck. Then she softened. "I'm sorry… I just realized how you must feel."

Scott responded without talking. _Get the hell out of my head._

_How did you know I was a telepath?_

Cyclops retargeted his lenses at Frost. _The Professor knew. So did Jean. But I could've guessed. I'm not in the mood to play games._

_She's been horrible to you. _

Summers' brilliant orbs flared, exposing the limits of the shielding provided by the ruby quartz. "This conversation ends now."

Emma wouldn't look away. _She told you she loved you…_

* * *

Rogue could hear Candy Southern within five feet of the bar.

"You idiot! I want real scotch. Got that? Single malt. Not this crap!" She was half off the barstool. A heavy-lidded bartender presented the label on a bottle. "That'll do." Southern settled down and winked at Peter Wyngarde, who was seated beside her. "Two," she instructed the server, "neat."

Peter tried to decline. "Not for me, thank you. I haven't finished the champagne…" A frown furrowed Candy's forehead. "Unless, you insist," he added.

"I insist." She raised her chin.

"I suppose I must comply." He drank the whiskey. "Perhaps we should see what our friends are up to, eh?" He left the stool.

"Wait." Candy caught his cuff. "First, you have to tell me. What can she really do? Can she affect your mind? Make you think things…feel things you wouldn't, otherwise?"

"Jean? Well, she..." Peter became aware of Rogue's presence next to him. He smiled and said, "Hello."

Rogue began scanning his consciousness. "You came here with Jean, right?" she asked.

"Yes. Are you one of her friends? From the Institute?"

"What's your name?" Rogue found his mental processes difficult to unravel. His motivations were layered and convoluted.

"Peter Wyngarde," he answered.

_What's your real name?_

"What's my real…? Wow… You're telepathic." Peter turned to Southern. "She just spoke to me in my head. Like Jean."

"Like Jean?" Candy glowered at her. "You're a mutant."

"I'm Rogue."

Suddenly Remy's voice emerged in her thoughts.

_I made it into the passageway, chére. I can see the doors to the room._

Rogue stepped away from Candy and Peter and the bar.

_Remy, don't try it. _She walked to the center of the pavilion. _What if that key has some kind of chip and it alerts security?_

_I'll disable that function. You find Mastermind?_

_I talked to the guy in the black suit. He has an English accent and says his name's Peter Wyngarde. He's definitely hiding something, but I can't tell if he's a psi or just running some kinda con. You know the type._

_What about the lovebirds on the roof you're so worried about?_

She observed the deck through the translucent walls. _I haven't been out there yet. _Beyond the trees, Jean's psionic corona burned brighter than ever. But the numerous branches obstructed Rogue's view of what was actually taking place.

_How's the Contessa and the big man?_

_They're talking to more old rich people._

_I got this working, if they… _His voice died out.

_Remy? Where are you?…_

_I'm inside..._

His transmission disintegrated, leaving her with no sense of him at all. The chamber was emitting some sort of psychic interference. Rogue's sight bounced from one person to another. Had Remy really gotten in without anyone finding out? She spied Leland and the Contessa breaking off from the people they were with. The large man's mouth was frozen halfway between a yelp and a snarl. Selene was laughing. With his right hand clenched shut, Harry stomped over to the elevators. Rogue knew he was gripping the bronze key to Betsy's room. Gallio sailed alongside him, cackling.

Rogue tried to contact Gambit.

_Remy, get out of there! They saw the key…_

There was no response. She watched the lift doors seal after Leland and Gallio; they were on their way down. Ghastly visions of the Contessa's bony digits sinking into Remy's skin filled Rogue's imagination. She had to get to him before they did. All her other concerns evaporated. At best, she had two minutes to save Remy LeBeau. If she couldn't convince Scott to shoot a hole in the roof of the Hellfire Club in the next sixty seconds, she'd take Summers' powers and blast the lid off herself.

* * *

Kurt Wagner was used to life-threatening situations. He'd been in so many since coming to the Institute and becoming one of Professor Xavier's X-Men that he lost count long ago. During a nosedive in the Blackbird a few days prior he'd munched on a peanut butter sandwich. But right now, speeding down FDR Drive with Kitty Pryde at the wheel, Nightcrawler was absolutely terrified - about to lose his dinner, lunch and breakfast, and then his intestines and his spleen.

"Kitty! Noooo!"

"What's wrong?" Pryde shouted, while phasing the 1960s convertible through a Range Rover SUV. Vehicles on either side swerved out of the way.

"You're supposed to slow down if there's a car ahead of you. Not drive through it!" he yelled over the rush of the freeway.

"We're in a hurry!" The little red and white Austin-Healey lurched far right and shot into the wall of concrete that divided the off-ramp from the ninety-story Amalgamated Bank Center.

There was no impact, no violent crash. The small sports car simply dissolved. Kurt felt his physical form merging with glass, steel and plaster. This was it. He was dead.

"Come on, already!" Kitty stamped her foot.

He opened his yellow eyes and was relieved to find there wasn't a steel girder jutting out of his chest. They were inside the darkened main building. Kitty had parked the Austin-Healy in the middle of the cavernous granite lobby. "Give me a minute…or I'm gonna be sick. Did you have to do that? What's wrong with the street?"

Pryde reached through the door and yanked him out of the car. "People would see us."

"Why did I let you talk me into this?" He brushed her away. "We're supposed to be watching the mansion."

"Rogue is at this party with Gambit. And that means trouble…" Kitty crossed the lobby with Kurt reluctantly padding after her.

"You don't know for sure," he said. "She went somewhere. We don't know where. We don't know who's she's with. Maybe she wants to be alone and that's why she's not answering your calls."

Kitty led him to the windows on Pearl Street. "I told you. They were talking about it this morning in the alley. Let's take a look, just to be safe. If everything's cool, we'll go straight home, okay?"

"You'll let me drive?"

"No problem." She smiled, which always made him melt.

"I'd like to get back before Scott does. If he finds out we stole his car he'll…"

"Murder us. Yeah." She took his hand and they leapt through the pane, landing quietly on the glittery sidewalk. The tall iron gates of the Hellfire Club, flanked by security agents, dominated the next block. Pryde pointed to the crystal structure on top of the grand marble edifice. It pulsed with shimmering bands of color. "'Port us up there, Kurt."

"Uh, Kitty, that's really far."

"It's fifty-two meters from the ground to the roof of that glass house thing with the crazy lights."

"Not a smart idea." He shook his furry blue head.

"You can do it. And think, you'll get your revenge. I'll be the one feeling sick afterwards."

Nightcrawler put his arms around her. A flash, followed by a puff of acrid smoke, left an empty sidewalk.

* * *

Rogue ran onto the roof deck. She was immediately dazed by Jean's intense radiance and confused by the artificially mild temperature. Partially shielding her eyes, she managed to discern who was in front of her. Scott was there. But he wasn't looking at Grey. Someone else held his attention - Emma Frost. The air surrounding the blond woman undulated, bending the light from Jean's psychic aura and distorting Rogue's telepathic perception. Rogue hadn't been aware of it earlier; Emma was obviously another freakishly powerful psi_._

Rogue channeled Betsy. Braddock was convinced her efforts to hide her extrasensory abilities from Frost had been successful. But Rogue couldn't be certain it was true. She feared Emma would absorb everything the instant they made eye contact. Still, she had to take the chance. Time had run out.

Carefully avoiding Emma's silvery stare, Rogue went up to Summers. "I gotta talk to you."

"What is it, Rogue?" Summers parted from Frost.

Rogue pressed him. "I need your help. I don't have time to explain…" She swiftly strode to the eastern half of the deck, urging Cyclops to match her progress with pointed glances.

They stopped by the edge. "Since he's not here, I'm betting this has something to do with Gambit." The ruby quartz glasses failed to mask Scott's annoyance.

"His life is in danger." She snapped her fingers behind her back silently. "Somewhere on the floor below, there's a passageway, and a room..." She searched Summers' brain for anything he might have discovered during the course of the evening. A specific memory surfaced - Emma explaining why the solar-charged tiles didn't cover the southeast portion of the roof. "That area is under construction," Frost had said. Rogue's vision flew to the exact spot.

"What are you doing?" Cyclops grabbed her wrists and held her exposed fingertips at bay.

"Scott!" She tipped her head towards the dark expanse. "Remy's over there and they're gonna destroy him unless you help me!"

"Help you how?" His hold seemed stronger than steel.

"We gotta get him outta there. You gotta blow the roof. Now!"

"That's a great idea, Rogue. The most influential people in the country are here honoring the Professor. After they watch me destroy the building, I'm sure they'll work tirelessly for equal rights for mutants."

A northerly gale tunneled in from the harbor, stripping away the synthetic warmth and chilling Rogue's nose. "They could be killing him!"

"If Gambit finally gets caught for sneaking into someplace he doesn't belong, maybe he'll learn a lesson – one he deserves." A ringing thwack jerked Scott's sight to the railing along the north side of the roof. Jean's weighted vest lay on the deck floor. "Oh no..." Cyclops released Rogue and rushed to the scene.

Rogue was microseconds from swiping the back of his neck when she sensed the presence of two X-Men she'd assumed were at the mansion - Shadowcat and Nightcrawler. They were perched on the sloped exterior of the vault of the pavilion, spying on the party guests beneath.

* * *

Power and wealth imbued every aspect of the large, dark chamber. The nearly two-dozen portraits depicting the members of the Inner Circle throughout its two hundred and twenty-seven year plus history stared down at Remy from heavy gilded frames anchored to ebony-paneled walls. The combined fragrance of smoldering maple logs, cigar ashes and ancient wine stains wafted into his nostrils. He inhaled deeply. _The smell of fortune, _he commented to no one.

LeBeau drifted into a dream. The black wall panels slid open, revealing multiple corporate boardrooms, each showcasing a different international skyline - São Paulo, London, Dubai, Tokyo. Remy saw a sophisticated version of himself – a well-groomed peer of the Inner Circle – making deals with men worth billions.

None of it was real. The room was toying with his mind. Was it psychic technology? Averting his gaze from the walls, he settled on the coals crumbling in the elephantine fireplace. After taking a moment to reorient his senses, he returned to his investigation. At the opposite end of the chamber was a lacquered, oval-shaped table surrounded by high-backed chairs. Arranged above were six portraits, which formed a separate group from the other paintings. These pieces appeared to be much older than the rest. He'd wager they were produced during the 1780s.

Two of the subjects, both female, looked unnervingly familiar. One with wildly flowing red locks – an unusual feature for an eighteenth century work – was Jean Grey's twin in every respect, and identical to the person in the little painting in the cocktail lounge where he met Betsy earlier. In the other picture, a pale woman peered out from a black lace mantilla. Gold script in the lower right read, "Baronesa de Monte Villena, In the Year of Our Lord 1783." Remy believed the lady recently introduced to him as the 'Contessa Selene Gallio' must have posed for it centuries ago.

_Two hundred and twenty something years is a long time_, he thought, noticing the youthful, almost girlish qualities of the portrait that were lacking in the present-day Contessa. _Even for a life-force sucking vampire_. Then the line of the young Baronesa's nose and the glint of defiance in her gray-green-brown eyes made him jump. For a moment, he was convinced he was looking at Rogue, or maybe her sister, or her moth…

A click made him pivot 180 degrees. The coiled dragons that served as door handles rotated. Remy dropped into one of the chairs and rested his heels on the shiny black table. The silhouettes of a tall, bony woman and a short, bloated man blocked the illumination from the sconces in the passageway. Selene and Leland entered the chamber.

"Took you folks long enough," said Gambit, while casually tossing the platinum key into the air. The small metal object lit up, infused with enough destructive energy to blow off an ear or take out an eyeball.

"Flatten him," Gallio hissed.

Leland responded, "My pleasure."

The blazing key shot downward with the force of a speeding bullet and tore across Remy's palm. "Mal!" he shouted and grasped his injured hand. His arms became heavy as lead. Soon the sensation spread down his side and he slammed onto the floor.

"How did you know about us? And the key?" Leland demanded. "Talk! Or I'll crush you."

Remy rolled onto his stomach. It felt like an oil tanker was anchored on top of him, crunching his skeleton. "That's all I was meaning to do. Talk to you people…"

The Contessa swept nearer and peeled off one of her gloves. "So, Charles Xavier is a liar. His proper students, his X-Men, are nothing but thugs, thieves and spies."

"I'm not with the X-Men. I work for Magneto." Slowly, he reached out, spreading his limbs on the polished wood planks. "I have…information to trade."

"You are not in a good position to negotiate, are you, Remy?" Selene didn't seem old anymore. When she pronounced his name she sounded like Rogue. "I've been waiting a long time." She crept closer, leaving less than three feet between them. "To touch a man with so much life..."

Gambit splayed his fingers and ignited the entire floor wall to wall. "I know about your touch, Madame. You stop right there. Or I'll blow this whole place to Hell!"

* * *

Nightcrawler was on all fours, observing the activity on the stage inside the pavilion through the translucent ceiling. Kitty poked him hard in the ribs. It sent him sliding down the slanted exterior. He didn't go far though. His multi-jointed, claw-like toes quickly hooked onto the rivets in the girders. He rose on his haunches and glared at her.

"Why did you do that?"

"Because you weren't listening!" Kitty's boots were partially phased through the thick glass, which gave her the incongruous appearance of standing straight on an inclined plane. "Rogue is out on the deck. That's who we're here to keep an eye on. Not that weird singer. Okay?"

"She's not weird. She's totally hot. Did you see her?" Kurt crouched down again to watch the svelte woman in the strobing, incandescent dress vamp before the crowd.

"Yes. I saw her, Kurt."

"She's controlling those explosions. She must be a mutant. And the music sounds so cool…" The bass frequencies within reverberated through the I-beams. He got back up. "Kitty, are you jealous?"

"Please." She placed her hands on her hips. "In your dreams."

"Let's go in and have some fun." He activated his holographic image inducer. In an instant, Nightcrawler was transformed into a normal-looking teenager wearing a tuxedo. Pryde recognized the suit as the one the Professor programmed for Sadie Hawkins Night. Kurt climbed over to her. "I know how much you love to dance."

She smiled. She did find him irresistibly cute sometimes. Then she heard a voice in her head. But it wasn't the Professor or Jean. It was Rogue. Kitty raised her palms to her temples.

"What is it?" asked Kurt.

"God, I knew this was going to happen! Rogue needs us. She wants us to teleport over there." Shadowcat pointed to the southeast corner of the roof below.

"Uh, do you have a micro-communicator somewhere? How are you talking to Rogue?"

"I don't know, Kurt. She must have absorbed telepathy from somebody. We better leave."

Nightcrawler nodded while receiving exact coordinates from Rogue. "Here we go," he said, hugging Pryde. The strengthening breeze in the wake of their disappearance carried a hint of brimstone.

* * *

The adamantium fiber vest hit the tile floor of the roof deck with a loud slap. Warren stretched his hands across Jean's back and drew her within a feather's thickness of his lips. The air currents converging under his extended appendages pushed him upwards. He tightened his hold on Jean as they rose, entwined, several feet.

She pressed his cheek. "Wait."

"Wait for what?" A single stroke of his wings would carry them nearly forty feet into the sky. But Angel held off, bobbing with the rising winds.

_Can't you see it?_ Her eyes burned white-hot.

Warren stared into bright suns. The blinding brilliance consumed his vision. Iridescent phosphenetic sparks glittered amidst the blazing whiteness. _ I can see it, Jean._

_All this energy… I can't keep it inside._

_Let it go. You have to..._

The light spread to her face and raced up the streaming waves of her hair. _There's so much you don't understand._

_I understand you, Jean. You aren't going to turn into a monster. Trust me._

* * *

The broad oak floorboards sizzled with Remy's power. Charged particles swarmed the heels of the Contessa's silk shoes and began to roast Leland's well-worn leather soles.

Remy, still prone on the ground, interpreted their silence as a sign of surprise. "Just so you people know, the more I stretch my abilities the less time I have to deactivate the charge. You folks have maybe three seconds to convince me we can all be friends. After that, your fine heritage and everything in this whole section will be blown to bits, starting with the three of us."

The big man was sweltering. "I apologize for underestimating your formidable skills." The weight lifted off LeBeau. Almost immediately, bands of energy retreated from the area encircling Leland.

Remy focused on the one-gloved Contessa. "Two seconds, Madame."

Her eyes widened. "You are a very bold young man." She pulled on her errant glove. "Now start talking."

Remy arose. "Either of you have something for this?" His slashed flesh continued to bleed. Leland gave him his handkerchief. LeBeau wrapped it around his hand and sat down again on one of the high-backed chairs. Selene took the seat across from him. "How 'bout a glass of wine from that decanter on the sideboard? Anyone else thirsty?" asked Gambit.

A smattering of embers spat from the massive fireplace while Leland collected the crystal vessel and three glasses. The puff of cinders went unnoticed, as did the emergence of three individuals on the other side of the hearth. Kitty Pryde, with Rogue on her left and Kurt on her right, stepped forth silently from the dark wood paneling.

Rogue peeked around the great stone mantel. _I see him, _she transmitted telepathically. _He's…talking to them._

Kurt looked out too. _You want me to teleport him to the roof?_

_No. Let's listen._

Leland poured the deep crimson liquid and offered a toast. "To collaboration."

Remy sipped the drink. "I like this place. I think we can do some nice business," he said. "One of the resident club members educated me about your crew in here. Her name's Elizabeth Braddock. She's a fine-looking girl from London."

"We know who she is." Leland cut in, brusquely. "But I never told her about…"

"She's a telepath."

"I knew it! Emma said she wasn't." The Contessa was ready to spring from her chair.

"She's also an agent with Excalibur. They're some new outfit with British Intelligence." LeBeau sucked down the rest of his wine.

"I've seen you flirting with her, Harry - a spy from MI6!" Selene pointed a skinny finger at her fellow peer.

_What do you want us to do, Rogue?_ Kitty's disembodied head poked from the mantle. _He doesn't seem to be in imminent danger. I mean he's willingly…_

_Telling them stuff. You're right. He's not in danger. He's having a fine time playing his ol' pal Betsy. Just like he played me, again, tonight._ Rogue was suddenly exhausted.

Gallio jumped up. "Someone else is here. Several ones. I feel them." She hastened towards the hearth.

"Who else is with you?" Leland's complexion purpled.

"Nobody." Remy leaned back in his seat, betraying no concern.

_Get us outta here, Kurt,_ ordered Rogue.

The Contessa searched the smoky fireplace and the area beyond. But she detected no evidence of intruders, only a faint whiff of matches.

* * *

The sound of rustling taffeta mixed with Candy Southern's plaintive voice below. "Warren?"

"Jean!" Scott shouted.

"Are you okay, Jean?" It was Wyngarde, moving ahead of Candy.

Grey was not okay. She had to break out of Warren's embrace, or she would lose control. She could feel the flames searing her skin. The Professor appeared, accompanied by Storm and Beast. His words entered her mind.

_Jean, remember; keep your feet and your thoughts on Earth. And you'll be fine. Just fine..._

Grey stretched out her right hand. "Peter, pull me down, quickly_._"

"I'll hold you down, Jean," said Logan, suddenly present by her left.

She had practically forgotten Wolverine. His desire for her was tangible. She glimpsed disturbing sequences running in his head. _Peter!_ she called. Wyngarde grabbed her fingers.

_Jean, don't you feel this?_ Anguish pinched Warren's brows.

_Yes. It's too much for me. All of this is too much…_

Angel's arms dropped to his sides. Jean clung to Peter's wrist. She telekinetically raised the adamantium jacket and towed it behind as she and Wyngarde hurried back to the pavilion. The eyes of everyone on the deck followed them inside.

_Where's Xi'an? _asked Jean, sailing straight for the elevators.

"I just texted her. She's on the way," answered Peter. His shoes skated over the smooth floor as Jean dragged him along. "She's meeting us on the street."

_I need her now! I shouldn't have stopped the medication. _The elevator doors parted the moment Jean looked at them. _I think I'm losing it… I don't know what to do… _The lift plummeted so fast their stomachs lurched. Within seconds they had cleared the Great Hall. Jean flew past the security agents posted at the entrance and dashed through the gates onto Pearl Street. Peter ran after her, pushing aside a few flummoxed guards.

_Oh god! Where is she?_ Jean knelt on the sidewalk and covered her blazing face with her hands; the fractured radiance formed burning shards.

Peter frantically texted the number thirteen repeatedly. "She'll be here, Jean. Hold on."

Jean heard taps coming from the marble steps of the club. Xi'an ran to them, nearly tripping over her loosely fitting green dress.

"Jean! I must have been going up while you two were coming down." She paused to catch her breath. "But I'm here." Crouching, she gently took hold of Jean's wrists and helped her to stand. "I'm so sorry." Xi'an reached for Peter and he for Jean. Jean completed the circuit, tightly gripping the hands of her friends. Then she released a rush of energy. A fiery glow lifted the ring of three. Their thoughts formed a chorus:

_We feel nothing…_

* * *

Warren circled hundreds of feet above the hovering group on the sidewalk. He didn't know what he should do about the scene below, but he was certain he didn't like it. He pitched down and would have landed, but the atmospheric pressure surrounding him changed radically in an instant. A vortex sucked him skyward. At the center of it, her eyes pulsing with galvanic current, was Storm.

He let the whirlwind draw him in. Once inside the nucleus with the Windrider, he broadened his wings and drifted on the constant updraft. "Is this what Xavier wants?" he asked when he was close. Storm remained silent. "Do you even know this guy Peter she's with? And who's the girl in the green and where did she come from? Maybe they're mutants and they're trying to manipulate her!"

"We are watching them," responded Ororo. Her voice, carried by the wind, orbited his ears.

"All of you are driving her crazy! Pinning her down. Not letting her fly. How would you feel if Xavier tethered you to the ground? My parents forced me to wear a brace to hide my wings for years; they made me hate them. But now I can't imagine anything worse than being trapped down there, can you?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Warren." Her words hit him like a shower of ice. "Stay away from Jean."

The light enveloping Grey and Peter and the young woman in the green dress dimmed as their feet reconnected with the sidewalk. A cab pulled over immediately and Peter held the door for the two girls.

"What if she wants to be with me?" Warren watched Jean get in the car.

"She doesn't know what she wants." Storm's long silvery-white braids spread in all directions. "There will be no more discussion." She stretched out her arms as flashing spheres of electro-magnetic plasma formed in her open palms. "Don't make me hurt you."

* * *

Emma Frost and Sebastian Shaw stood by the north railing on the now mostly deserted roof deck and looked out at the city.

"Well, I'd say tonight was quite a success, Emma, despite some minor altercations. People do occasionally clash at these sorts of events. Frankly, the evening would have been an utter bore otherwise…"

"Sebastian, look." Emma pointed out the intersection of Pearl and Broad below. Peter Wyngarde was ushering Jean and Xi'an into the taxi. "Just as I told you. Jean Grey is ours."


	35. Project Archangel

**Chapter 34 – Project Archangel**

Warren soared west. The wind carrying him scattered the surrounding islands of woolly cumulus humilis clouds, revealing majestic glacier-capped mountains. The salt of the Pacific seasoned the air as the thin blue line of the approaching ocean thickened across the horizon. One frozen peak stood out against the watery border, cresting far beyond its neighbors at thirty-three hundred meters.

Angel steered towards the distant summit. Merging flocks of Tundra Swans created a tunnel of intersecting triangles. The late morning light projected their beating forms onto the pristine snow below. After swiftly clearing the birds, Worthington observed his own avian-like shadow skimming the shining slopes.

The sun rose behind him. He felt its heat on his spine. Then another winged outline appeared on the glittering ice. He curved upwards at a forty-five degree angle to circle his fellow traveler. At first the sunlight blinded him, but he knew it was Jean. Spreading from her back were wings like his own, made of feathers instead of flames. But hers weren't simply white; their colors composed a dazzling spectrum from violet to crimson to bright gold – the same as the angel in the skylight.

Jean reciprocated his motion, rising diagonally on thermal currents. A mysterious centripetal force pulled them closer and closer. As the ellipse of their rotation contracted, Warren curled his arms around her torso under her wings; she clasped his neck.

The revolving pair whirled inside a tall, narrow gash in the steep incline of the highest ridge. The shape of the opening lent it a whimsical character. It was roughly reminiscent of a person wearing a top hat. The dimensions of the aperture were nonetheless considerable - three hundred feet high, though never more than forty feet wide.

Grey spoke soundlessly. _Warren, where are we? What is this place?_

_Mount Verloren, the 'lost' mountain, _he responded with his thoughts. _Sanctuary._

Jean's flowing red hair coiled around his fingers as he cupped the back of her head. The attraction of her lips was irresistible. Their mouths locked together. Oblivious to the gathering darkness, the two drifted deeper into the cavern.

Soon Warren couldn't see anything. Jean seemed lighter than air in his arms. Desperate to keep her from floating away, he grasped her tighter, crushing her to his chest. Then he realized he was clutching nothing. He sensed barriers all around. He was alone, in an enclosed space, and he might as well be blind. Voices came through the walls.

"He's developed nearly complete secondary systems - avian ligament and coracoid structures. And you've both seen them, he's got...feathers."

"Yes, Doctor, we've seen his deformities." It was his father talking. "Remove them."

"You don't understand, Mr. and Mrs. Worthington. Your son is growing wings."

"I don't care what's coming out of him! If he's got a shell or a tail or hooves… He needs to be cured. Cut those damn things off!"

Angel had to get away. But he couldn't move. Thick straps bound him. An intravenous drip pierced the inside of his elbow. Were his veins filling with drugs? In the darkness, he struggled uselessly against his restraints.

Suddenly the seams of the room lit up. Lines of fire streamed above. A flaming golden feather drifted down and hovered over his chest. The buckles holding him unfastened and the IV unthreaded itself from his arm. His free wings pumped the air as he chased the rising feather. Before he could touch it, the radiant object dispersed. Ripples of energy fanned out to the edges of the chamber. He slammed against the ceiling.

* * *

"Sleep well?" The micro speaker in Warren's slim silver phone made Josh sound more nasal than he did in person.

"Not exactly," Warren answered; his senses were simmering from the dream. He was lying in bed in the midst of the immense former zeppelin hanger. His eyes studied the padded white surface thirty meters overhead. Varun Minar had put in the retractable tertiary ceiling prior to leaving for Mount Verloren. Angel was glad he had hit his head against the soft fabric instead of the adamantium reinforced steel plates of the layer above.

"I didn't sleep well either," Josh continued. "Candy decided to stop by last night, after that Hellfire thing. She was totally blitzed. I haven't seen her like that for years. I thought she would pass out, but she kept me awake until three. She's pretty messed up about whatever happened."

"Sorry to hear it."

Traffic noise indicated Josh was on the street. "So, you're really into this mutant girl?"

"Her name's Jean." Warren threw off the covers.

"Jean Grey, I know. She's one of the X-Men."

"She was." Angel stretched his wings and walked to the wall of screens he'd had installed five days earlier. At the moment, he was monitoring three news channels – with the audio muted – and seven of the eighty-five recently acquired cameras he'd ordered stationed strategically throughout the Worthington Tower. "Now she's only going to school, and living in the city…"

"Is she there with you?" Josh's vocal level shrank to a whisper.

"No." One of the news programs cut away to a multidimensional graphic of a crystalline orb traveling through space. "Xavier and the rest of them don't want me to see her."

"Might be a good idea. Candy said she can kill people just by thinking about it." An ambulance siren wailed between Josh's words. "Is that true?"

"If you thought about it, Josh, you could kill people – you could drop a law book on somebody's head or, I don't know, run over someone with a car…"

"I can't drive, Warren. But I take your point."

"Don't we have other things to discuss?"

"Like challenging your father's control of the board this afternoon? We should really talk about that."

"Hey, if you want to forget it, I understand." Angel's stomach tightened while he witnessed the moon-sized sphere on the digital display smash into the Earth. "Maybe I should be more focused on other stuff anyway."

"That's not what I'm getting at." Josh's tone deepened. "I peeked at the agenda for today's meeting a couple of minutes ago. The main topic is something called 'Project Archangel'."

"That's interesting. A mutant named Domino was telling me about Project Archangel at the Hellfire Club. She said it's a new Sentinel that's modeled after small aircraft. They can do the job without making a mess, supposedly." Warren watched the cosmic impact fade into an aerial shot of the Starcore launching base in Cape Herald, Florida.

"They've scheduled a major publicity event for Monday morning in Times Square," Josh went on, "and there's going to be a demonstration."

Instantly Warren saw his father's priorities in vivid Technicolor. "So, that's why he's here – to introduce your friendly neighborhood Archangel Sentinel. I'm only a minor complication."

Josh jumped on Angel's last sentence. "Let's escalate that complication. Warren, it's time you became a serious threat."

* * *

Jean Grey couldn't keep her eyes tethered to her reflection in the mirror. They kept drifting away – through the thirty-story window of her dorm room to the sky beyond the high-rise apartment blocks of the Upper West Side. What would she do if she saw Warren out there? Her feet responded by lifting off the floor. Angel's voice ricocheted inside her mind.

_Jean, don't you feel this?_

Words, images and sensations wove within her consciousness. Warren held her in his arms as they sailed towards an enormous, snow-covered mountain. A dizzyingly high cavern darkened around them.

_Warren, where are we? What is this place?_ she asked.

_Mount Verloren, the 'lost' mountain, _he replied silently. _Sanctuary._

His fingertips caressed the back of her head. She sensed his wings beating wildly as his lips pressed against hers.

"Yo! Look at that!" a man yelled. Jean's ears were assaulted by car horns and shouts from below.

_Please, no… _She was levitating outside her window, which was open, a hundred yards above Morningside Drive. At least she'd decided to match her short skirt with opaque black tights rather than semi-sheer thigh highs.

She flew inside and telekinetically reached for the adamantium-laced vest. Focusing on her image in the glass, she tugged it on over her trim red turtleneck sweater. Her experience seconds ago proved its necessity, especially if she starting thinking about Warren again. The sweater could conceivably work with it – if she was also wearing cargo pants and combat boots. But she wasn't going to attend a concert at Carnegie Hall dressed like a military wannabe; she and the great audience of New York City would just have to abide the awkward juxtaposition of a flak jacket on top of a miniskirt.

She was still reconsidering her clothing choices when she entered the student commons on the street level of Hamilton Hall. She was fifteen minutes early to meet Peter and Xi'an. They were going to have brunch at the Astral and then take the subway downtown for the matinée performance. Yet after her near loss of control the previous evening, Jean first needed to make sure she could handle being in a crowd.

The number in the commons only provided a modest sample – nine people. Three were glued to their laptops, four lounged on the couches, and a couple chatted by the snack machines. In the rear of the space Jean glimpsed a news show on a large screen. A translucent celestial body crossed the frame. The volume was low. She could barely hear the commentary.

"Starcore calls this crystal globe Anomalous Object 13. It has a diameter of thirty-two hundred kilometers, that's close to two thousand miles, slightly smaller than the moon…"

Grey instinctively used her telekinesis to increase the audio.

"Not only is Starcore saying the mysterious Object 13 is traveling faster than the speed of light – which is supposed to be impossible – but it just might be coming straight towards us."

The reclining students sat up and the couple stopped talking. Jean noticed even the laptop users were turning from their little displays to watch with everyone else. The computer-generated sphere struck a spinning model Earth.

"Holy shit," expressed one of the kids on the couch while viewing the cataclysmic collision.

The television continued speaking. "Dr. Alain Corbeau is Starcore's Research Director and he's leading the team of scientists set to launch Monday for the Eagle One Space Station. He's here to tell us more about this phenomenon." Footage of Starcore Command in Florida cut to a studio set where a paunchy, puffy-haired man sat in an armchair facing Dr. Corbeau. "Thanks for joining us, Doctor."

"Glad to be here, Dan," Corbeau answered.

"So, should everyone panic immediately, or wait until the day after tomorrow?"

Corbeau smiled. "There is absolutely no reason to panic." His tone was calm and steady. "I'm aware that clip has been all over the web, but it is entirely inaccurate. The random chance that Object 13 will intersect with our remote, backwoods little star system is infinitesimal. And for the record, Starcore has never stated otherwise."

"But what if we aren't talking about random chance? What if this thing is on a flight plan?" The show host shifted in his seat.

"There are no indications Object 13 is specifically targeting our planet."

"But a lot of people are saying the exact opposite, Dr. Corbeau. The Friends of Humanity – the folks who provided that sequence – claim this thing is an alien weapon programmed to destroy us."

"Dan, we have found no evidence of that. Let me repeat: There is no reason to believe it is being controlled by an aliens…"

"Or that the mutants are summoning it? How do you know, Dr. Corbeau?"

"We have observed nothing that could be interpreted as communication: no light patterns, or signals of any measurable kind coming from or going to the Object. And the idea that mutants are somehow involved…" Corbeau's cool was evaporating. His shoulders stiffened. "That's utter nonsense. Dan, I'm a scientist, so I work with facts. There are no facts that tell me Object 13 is anything more than an errant, anomalous stellar mass, or that it will ever come close enough to cause any negative effects whatsoever."

"What is 'close enough?'" The host leaned in.

Corbeau paused in an attempt to appear more relaxed. "This is why that animation is so misleading. The people who made that video don't understand that even though Object 13 is the size of the moon, it contains more mass than our Sun. It's not going to sneak up on the Earth and slam into it. If it came within a light year or less of our solar system, we would all notice. It would destabilize the Kuiper belt and change the orbits of Neptune, Uranus, and possibly Saturn and Jupiter…"

"You're saying all this thing has to do is knock Jupiter around and we're dead."

"Well, if it altered the movement of the gas giants, the asteroid region kept in check by Jupiter's gravity could be released and potentially impact our atmosphere, among other things... But again, there are no signs that's going to happen."

"We don't have to wait until it smashes into us. Great!" The interviewer waved his arms and addressed the camera directly. "It's over, everybody!"

"Dan, I've known you for a long time." Corbeau took a breath. "I wouldn't lie to you and I wouldn't lie to your viewers, or the rest of the citizens of this country, or the people of the world. Our mission on Eagle One is to augment the capabilities of the station and the Biruni Telescope to better track and observe Object 13. We are putting all our efforts at Starcore into studying this phenomenon. If we discover it's a threat to our existence, we will inform the public immediately."

"How far away is it now?"

"Twenty light years approximately, as of last night."

"And how fast is it going?"

"It's moving at an irregular rate. It might be passing through folded space and jumping vast distances. We aren't sure. That's something we'll be investigating on Eagle One."

"So we got maybe a week or two?" The host laughed while noting his guest's strained reaction. "I'm kidding. Thanks for coming by, Dr. Corbeau. Good luck on the launch Monday." The newsman swiveled back to the camera. "Okay. After the break, we're going to meet a newcomer to the political scene who some people upstate are calling a savior and others are calling a segregationist. His name is Edward Kelly and it looks like he's about to become the next mayor of Bayville, New York. I'm Dan McManus and this is the Saturday Review."

Jean switched off the screen with her thoughts. Then she remembered where she was. "I'm sorry," she said, glancing around the room. "Put it back on, if you want to." She moved to leave.

The guy on the couch who had spoken earlier bolted to block her way. "So, are you doing this?"

"What?" Jean wanted to disappear.

"Are you mutants calling this Object thing?"

"No… Why would we?" She sensed the girl from the couple by the vending machines behind her.

"But you'll stop it, right?" asked the short brunette.

Jean turned. "You think I can stop it?"

"You and the X-Men. Like you stopped Apocalypse. Isn't that what you guys do? Save the world?"

"Jean!" Peter Wyngarde walked in, his casual behavior dissolved Grey's anxious reaction to the students. She was never happier to see him. He loosely grabbed her arm. "Xi'an's still sorting out which coat to wear. Ready to leave?"

"Yes. Let's go." Jean avoided the surrounding stares as they exited the commons.

* * *

Timing was critical. Warren had to touch down at the precisely correct moment – one beat after his father stepped onto the helipad of the Worthington Corporate Center on Columbus Circle for the two o'clock meeting of the board of directors.

Angel glided five hundred feet above the ninety-two-story skyscraper, using the stratus cloud layer lying low over the city to veil his presence. At 1:50 p.m. a shiny Buckman 507 helicopter bearing the red and black Worthington Corporation logo stirred the heavy atmosphere. Warren dove as its rotating blades slowed to a stop on the tarmac.

The dense stratiform vapor was almost sticky, despite the chilly temperature. He folded his wings in closer to cut through the clinging mist. During his few remaining seconds in the air, his mind filled with flames. He remembered gazing into Jean's burning irises on the deck of the Hellfire Club as he gripped the thin fabric of her dress. Maybe this confrontation with his father didn't matter so much. If he could see her... She felt so real in the dream. She must have been there psychically; she must want to see him too. Would Storm really electrocute him just for flying around Jean's building?

His visions of Jean were dispelled the instant he caught his father's cold glare below. The older man disembarked from the Buckman copter. Angel tilted into an upright position and landed on the roof ten feet away. A young man followed his dad out of the aircraft. Warren was pretty sure he was Giles Tareyton, his father's new assistant. Though Angel had never seen him before – their previous contact consisted solely of a short telephone conversation – Giles looked strikingly familiar.

Tareyton had to be near his age, and he was the same height – six feet. His build and features were so similar, Warren feared he was in the company of his evil twin. In fact, Giles' twill wool suit was as fine an example of Flitcroft & Thwaite's exquisite tailoring as the one Warren was wearing himself. There were two significant differences, however: Giles' slightly sunken, greenish-gray eyes were far more like Warren's father's; and Tareyton didn't have wings.

Adam and Josh Gould emerged from inside the building and moved in between the Worthingtons. Josh was mostly focused on his shoes, doing his best to ignore the vast open horizon which was interrupted only by the city's highest spires; but he quickly flashed a broad, confident smile at Angel. Warren waited for his father to speak. They hadn't seen each other for practically a year.

"Giles, this is Warren, my son." Worthington II's displeasure was evident.

"Good to meet you in person. We weren't expecting you today." Giles had a distinct New England patrician accent. Angel hadn't heard something like it since he was thirteen and his father allowed him to tag along for lunch at the Manhattan Yacht Club. He'd just been through an operation on his back and the meal was presented as a reward for his bravery during the surgery. But even at the time Warren realized his father was testing him, particularly when he failed spectacularly. Woozy from pain and medications, young Worthington III wasn't able to keep down his food and threw up on the president of the First Bank of Boston. The banker's response, "Well, that's new on the menu," jangled in Warren's memory.

"We shouldn't be surprised, Giles," the elder Worthington remarked. "He shows up everywhere now. Yet I don't see the press corps…" After surveying the rooftop he asked Angel, "Isn't your girlfriend Candy here planning another cover story for New York Magazine?"

"Candy Southern is not my girlfriend, Dad. I'm sure you won't believe this, but I try to avoid the media. I'm here for the meeting of the board."

"Why should I let you into my board room?" The senior Worthington's brittle patience was cracking.

Angel sent Josh a questioning glance before aiming the steeliest stare he could manage at his father. "I own a big part of this company."

"What the hell is going on, Adam?" The gray-haired Chairman and CEO turned to his primary counsel of twenty years and perhaps most intimate friend, Adam Gould.

Gould raised his hands. "I have no idea…"

"Here it is in print." Josh removed a sheaf of papers from his slim leather briefcase. "Mr. Worthington, do you recognize this?" He held out a copy of Warren Worthington I's will. "Five months ago your son turned twenty-one and gained the legal right to control half the estate and fifty percent of the voting stock."

Warren Worthington II's gray eyes became slits. "Half of your grandfather's company, boy!" he raged at Angel. "You think I just sat on this pile and did nothing? The Worthington Corporation is five times the size of that old man's ticker tape, dime store dream factory! Don't you read the Wall Street Journal, War? No, you're too busy flying around playing superhero for the cameras!"

"My name isn't 'War'." Warren stood firm.

"Sir, even if Warren accepted your position – and I am not saying he will – he'd still own ten percent of the shares and the bylaws state…" Josh started.

Worthington II thrust a fist up to Josh's face, stopping barely an inch shy of the young lawyer's nose. "I ought to bash your face in, kid."

"And that would be another lawsuit." Josh didn't flinch.

Adam Gould shifted to shield Josh. "Warren, believe me, I had no clue the boys were going to do this. But the legacy exists and you and I both know it. Your son has the right to petition the board. And more importantly, he's asking to learn about the business. He's trying to become a part of your life. That's what you've always wanted."

* * *

"Where are you going, Dom? We passed it already." Lance Alvers, also known as Avalanche, was mystified by the actions of the woman in the driver's seat next to him. Domino had passed their target on Columbus Circle and was slowly cruising West 55th Street.

She faced him for a second. The dark patch ringing her left eye exaggerated her expression of annoyance. "You think we should just roll up onto sidewalk in front of the Worthington Corporate Center, jump out and bust our way in?"

Lance's brows furled in puzzlement. "What's wrong with doing that?"

"And you questioned Mystique when she put me in charge? It's a No Standing, No Loading, 'Don't even THINK of parking here' Red Zone! And it's crawling with police. The moment we opened the doors we'd have a hundred traffic cops tearing our heads off, and in the time it would take us to pound those bodies, Special Forces and those crazy MRD guys would arrive and be all over our asses before we got in the lobby."

"Okay, genius girl, let's spend the next three hours trying to find a place to park instead."

"Found one." A minivan pulled away from the curb right in front of them. "I always get a space." She slipped on a pair of dark glasses with lenses large enough to cover her tattoo and retrieved a black valise from the rear seats. "Keep in mind: Low profile. Let's save the show for the main stage, all right?"

* * *

Warren Worthington II led the way to the conference room. Giles walked less than a step behind, followed by the Goulds, and lastly, Angel. A crisply dressed woman with neatly trimmed bangs was stationed by the entrance.

"Hello, Carolyn." Worthington II's breezy manner betrayed none of the anger he had displayed on the roof.

"It's wonderful to see you Mr. Worthington." Carolyn's voice was as refined as her appearance. "The members are all here."

"My son chose to drop in on us, so we'll need another seat," instructed the older Warren. "Actually, I don't know if he can sit in a normal chair with those things of his."

Carolyn's attention flitted from her boss to the winged young man.

"I'll be fine. They bend," Angel explained.

"And Carolyn, Giles will be running the meeting. You may leave once everyone is seated." Worthington moved into the large chamber. Carolyn nodded as he went by. Angel picked up a note of disappointment in her reaction.

The minute Warren entered the conference space he was drawn to the enormous panoramic window that comprised three quarters of the east wall. Beyond the glass, the gold and orange autumn tree cover of Central Park formed a lush carpet bordering the stately parade of Beaux-Arts buildings that stretched down Fifth Avenue. Angel turned from the view and took the chair set for him beside Josh. Giles Tareyton was situated a few feet away, by the entry doors, on the opposite end of the long table from Warren's father.

Giles yanked Carolyn aside before she exited. "I shouldn't have to tell you this, but in case you're unaware, all communication goes through me." He handed her a slim phone. "If something comes up, you don't come in, you don't even knock. You call me and I decide whether or not to disrupt the proceedings. Understand?"

Worthington II began, "I am happy to see you all." He made quick eye contact with each of the eight directors. "Let's get started. First, let me introduce my new assistant, Giles Tareyton. He has proven himself indispensable, and he will be helping us this afternoon. Also, my son Warren is joining us, in a purely educational capacity. He's finally interested in finding out what my job is."

"Hear, hear! Good to see you taking your place, Warren." Angel recognized the speaker across from him. The man had been a frequent visitor to Falkenmore – back when his parents still threw parties, before they discovered their child was a mutant.

Giles listed the board members in attendance, "Mr. Halsley Woodhull IV…" Angel now had a name to attach to his supporter. "Dr. Jonathan Hodge…" Warren recalled Hodge from his childhood as well. "Mr. Toshio Ashida-san, and Mr. Guy Spear," Tareyton finished reading off the last ones. "Mr. Adam Gould serving as counsel. Others present: non-participating observers Mr. Joshua Gould and Mr. Warren Worthington III."

A thick curtain closed over the wide window as the interior lighting dimmed. On the other side of the room, the senior Worthington stood by a huge screen which showed a gigantic Sentinel being violently disassembled by a menacing Magneto. "I'm certain all of you will agree with me that the greatest challenge of our time is the Mutant Question. Some, perhaps most mutants pose no more than a minor danger to our society – I'm including my son in that category." The latter remark elicited several chuckles. "But there are others, extremely powerful individuals, who could at any moment wipe us out."

A montage of destruction filled the display. Angel nervously watched images of Storm summoning a whirlwind and hurling lightning; Cyclops crumbling the embankments of a colossal hydroelectric power station with a massive optic blast; and Jean telekinetically crunching the propellers of three Apache military helicopters into heart shapes.

"Our success containing and controlling mutants will determine our survival, not just our profits. The support we provided Bolivar Trask made the Sentinel Warrior Mark I possible. And with the re-instatement of the program we are locked in to produce the next series, the Mark II. But it is undeniable that there are serious problems with the Sentinel Warrior."

Video of people fleeing exploding cars and falling concrete in the wake of a Sentinel attack on the X-Men and the Brotherhood accompanied Worthington's speech.

"The first issue we must address is the fear these fifty-foot machines have stirred up throughout the public. In combat situations they've caused countless civilian injuries, destroyed entire buildings and caused millions of dollars worth of property damage. People are more scared of the Sentinels than they are of mutants. So, the MRD requested something smaller, more accurate, and less threatening that would specifically counter the abilities of the worst mutants – the select handful the MRD considers a Priority One security risk."

Warren leaned over to ask Josh, "What's the MRD?"

Josh wrote the words "Mutant Response Division" on a scrap of paper.

"That laid the groundwork for Project Archangel," Worthington II continued. "It's a twenty billion dollar contract for this year alone. And Monday morning in Times Square, we intend to deliver."

Schematics of a jet fighter-like unit came up. Warren noticed the dimensions – the fuselage was merely twenty-seven feet long and the wingspan just eighteen.

"Giles has prepared a thorough report." Worthington crossed in front of the screen and sat down.

Tareyton strode along the east wall, passing by the curtain and Warren and Josh. He positioned himself by the screen. "This is the Sentinel Reaper Mark I," he announced clearly. "Their small size and aerodynamic capabilities grant them the stealth and speed to surgically strike individual targets while minimizing civilian casualties and collateral damage."

The Sentinel plans dissolved into scenes of daily urban life. The label 'non-target' flashed repeatedly as a crowd of commuters filed into Grand Central Station.

"The units are programmed to assess every engagement. They will spare the lives of innocent normal humans and preserve property whenever possible. In fact, cultural institutions and historic landmarks are given particular deference. We don't want to level New York City."

The diagram of the Reaper's skeletal frame reappeared. The lines became bolder and more defined. Contour shading gave the concept sketch multidimensionality.

Giles' voice got louder. "The body is basically a scaled down Buckman F-35 Falcon…"

"That's the real reason we acquired Buckman Aircraft," Worthington II interjected, "to get their structural design staff." Laughter erupted.

Angel got up from his chair. "Dad, I can't believe you've done all this!" Huffs and gasps swept the chamber. "You even bought an aircraft company? You always said aerospace was a terrible investment…"

Tareyton cut him off. "Mr. Worthington, you do not have the right to interrupt this presentation. You are here strictly as an observer and you are not entitled to make any statements at any time."

Josh rose too. "Mr. Tareyton, as Warren's counsel, I must inform everyone that you are incorrect. We have the right to petition this board, and we intend to exercise that privilege."

"Not while he's talking, boy!" Despite the low light, Angel could see his father's neck and jaw tensing. "Sit down!" the older man commanded.

Warren and Josh obeyed. Worthington II exhaled audibly.

Giles acted as if nothing had happened. "The Reaper Sentinels' strategic planning and mutant classification software is far more sophisticated than the Warrior series. Not only can they access thousands of potential battle scenarios, they have been engineered to neutralize the mutant abilities of Priority One targets."

The Reaper prototype on the monitor grew layers of dark material.

"To increase the odds against combatants with the ability to control magnetic fields – meaning Magneto – we exclusively used non-conductive components with the greatest resistivity: newly developed carbon filament reinforced polymers with a boron carbide ceramic exterior shell. Even the armaments contain no metal parts. A full load carries six Chimera photonic missiles."

Angel wished there were more detailed shots of the mountings for the weapons.

"This lack of conductivity combined with the high heat resistance and radiation absorbing qualities of the boron carbide will also counter the powers of mutants who can generate live electric current, including weather manipulators," Tareyton went on, "like Storm."

Shining with its final coating of ceramic, the digital Sentinel withstood multiple electric discharges.

"Lightning bolts will have little to no effect."

The unit on the screen now darted and dove, exhibiting its aerial prowess.

"Once the so-called 'Windrider' realizes she can't fry these guys, she'll find it impossible to escape. No mutant can outmaneuver or evade these things in the air."

The Reaper then rotated to reveal a broad, oblong red crystal panel.

"It has a ruby quartz deflector to protect it against Cyclops' optic energy blasts as well." Giles stepped forward. "Even if you are not impressed, gentlemen, by the defenses described so far, I think you will be amazed by this next feature."

The picture of the deflector cut to video of Jean speaking to a large gathering of parents at a Bayville School Board meeting.

"Jean Grey is among the most insidious category of mutants: psychics. Like her telepathic mentor, Charles Xavier, she appears to be a perfectly normal person, most of the time, as she does in this footage. But make no mistake; according to the MRD, her powers currently are unquantifiable, and they're growing – some intelligence sources claim exponentially."

Warren felt sick. A barrage of clips portrayed Jean as a super-powered mutant dynamo – launching abandoned cars at a Sentinel Warrior; swooping down from the sky to stop a runaway freight train with her mind; and containing a ferocious multi-tank chemical explosion with a telekinetic force field.

"The MRD ranks her with Magneto as having the highest destructive potential. Luckily, we've recently found a way to use Jean's psychic abilities against her." Giles' lips curved into a smirk.

The action sequence faded to black and was replaced by a table listing letters of the Greek alphabet with corresponding frequency ranges.

"New research conducted by our friends at Shaw Industries has revealed a register of brain activity that only psis produce, called omicron waves. Psychics use these frequencies for mental communication and manipulation. When Shaw's tests confirmed that psis can be overwhelmed by a surge in the low end of the omicron spectrum, we formed a partnership to develop psionic security technology for the Sentinel Program. The Reaper can emit a devastating omicron signal pulse that will knock Jean Grey unconscious."

* * *

Domino slid the fingers of her free hand along the contours of one of the giant bronze slabs in the lobby of the Worthington Corporate Center. A warbling sound decreased in pitch as she lowered her arm. "Cool… Don't you think, Lance?"

Avalanche's response came through gritted teeth. "I'm trying not to think right now. 'Cause if I do I'm gonna get really mad."

"You're so impatient." Domino swung her valise while strolling over to the other humongous art installation – a thirty-foot high waterfall that appeared to miraculously defy gravity by flowing upwards. Lance stomped after her. "I just want to check this stuff out," she told him. "This place might not be here tomorrow."

"Let's ax the sightseeing. If we're going to do this…"

Domino arrested his words with a look. "Let's do it now." She casually mounted the ramp to the mezzanine and approached the elevators to the corporate offices.

One of the guards behind the security desk moved out and blocked her path. "Corporate offices are closed on Saturdays, Miss. You and your friend need to turn around."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know we had to check in. We're here for the meeting of the board." Domino pushed her sunglasses against the bridge of her nose.

"You'll have to come with me first. We have to call upstairs." The security agent led her to the large marble counter where his colleague was already on the phone. Domino glanced back at Lance and subtly motioned him in the direction of the lone elevator at the end of the hall.

"Ms. Cheng? Carolyn, we have two people who say they're here for the meeting… Yeah. Hold on." The guard on the phone asked Domino, "What are your names?"

"Daisy and Donald," she answered while opening her valise.

"Last names?"

Domino closed the lid and held up two Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistols. "Try and duck."

* * *

The model of the Sentinel Reaper Mark I slowly spun on the digital monitor like a jewel on a carousel platform in a mirrored case. All the men in the conference room were applauding Giles' presentation, except Warren and Josh.

"Thank you." Giles beamed proudly.

Warren didn't wait for the clapping to die down. He shot to his feet.

"When did you decide to become a merchant of death?" he yelled at his father. "I'm just wondering. Is it something you're proud of?"

"Are you exercising your privilege?" asked Giles with a sneer.

"Yes, we are," Josh responded.

Warren expanded his challenge to the rest of the board. "What if Charles Xavier is right and mutants and non-mutants can learn to live together? What would happen to this company if sometime in the future, maybe in four or five years, people accepted the idea that we are all human beings, whether or not we have a mutation? You know what would happen? The Worthington name would become synonymous with genocide."

"Well, War, I wouldn't worry about that too much." Worthington II got up and obscured part of the rotating Sentinel on the display. "And if it does happen, you can help your friends the X-Men create aerial predators to hunt down the last real humans."

"The X-Men are not my friends. But you and the MRD have them totally wrong. They're not like Magneto. They are not seeking world domination. Even in most of the video you edited together to demonize them, the X-Men were risking their lives to save people, normal humans."

"From other genetic freaks! That's the thing. Mutants are too powerful. That nice-looking young redhead who's a student uptown, Jean Grey, she might be the next Apocalypse. That little girl could destroy thousands, maybe millions of lives. No one should have that kind of power."

"No one except you."

An electronic chime rang from Giles' suit jacket. He reached into his inside left breast pocket and removed his phone. "Yes, Carolyn, we're almost done. What is it? Oh? Well, don't worry about it. I'm sure security can handle the situation."

Worthington II turned towards Tareyton. "What's going on?"

"I don't think it's a major concern. Security called up saying some people in the lobby are claiming they have an appointment with the board."

Suddenly a tremor shook the chamber. The doors to the conference room burst open and Carolyn Cheng fell inside followed by the two guards from downstairs.

A tall, thin woman in black leather entered accompanied by a pumped-up guy with a sinister-looking mullet. The woman tracked the faces of the assembled executives with one of her guns. "Don't move. Anybody!" The room froze. "You know the deal. Hands up!" She switched her focus to Angel. "Hi there, bird boy. Having fun playing big business man?"

"Domino, this is not the way to help mutants. You're proving them right. This is just what they want," he said, as calmly as he could.

"Shut up!" she shouted. Warren fell silent. "Now. Everyone listen to me." The black circle around her eye widened beyond the edge of the left lens of her dark glasses. "I'm a mutant and so is my friend here. Just so one of you big guys doesn't try to be a hero, let me explain what we can do. Avalanche here can send another quake through this joint if you misbehave. You know, really stress test the foundations… Sounds fun, huh? I'll show you my mutant power." She took aim at Worthington II and fired. Giles threw himself in front of the muzzle but the bullet whizzed by him, grazing his collar.

A loud groan came from the floor. Warren looked where his father had been standing and saw blood splattered across the shiny image of the Sentinel Reaper Mark I.

Domino released her grip on the trigger. "I never miss."


	36. Abstraction

**Chapter 35 – Abstraction**

Thick sonorous tones rippled the air inside the Great Auditorium of Carnegie Hall. Jean held the hands of her friends Xi'an and Peter who were seated on either side. Their minds were linked telepathically. Jean sensed her consciousness converging with the thoughts of the other two. The different timbres of their imaginations flowed together and apart sympathetically with the vibrating strings of the viola, viola da gamba, and cello played by the musicians performing the Bach concerto on the stage.

Peter's deep affinity for the music intensified Jean and Xi'an's perception of the rapid pacing and resonant layering of the main melodic line upon itself. The soaring notes wove sonic forms so pristine and exquisite they inspired Jean to light their brains with arcing stellar flares and fusing nuclei.

Xi'an's inner voice articulated their collective rapture. _This is true beauty – perfection, untainted by emotion. Pure love without desire. This is our essence… Self beyond self._

The three shared the sensation of floating up to the ceiling and then beyond the roof of the concert hall. As they sailed above the city, their discarded bodies with their attendant petty concerns shrank to the size of pinpoints.

_Think what power you could wield from up here, Jean, _said Xi'an while they rose past sparkling stratospheric clouds. _ Without that shell restricting you, bending your mind…_ Harmonics from the echoing chords made Xi'an's words shimmer.

_We can control your power. _ Peter's thoughts reverberated through the low strains of the cello. Drifting in space, they were surrounded by stars pulsing to the concerto's insistent rhythm. Jean set her gaze upon the enormous burning mass of the Sun. _Together._

* * *

The expressions of the directors remained suspended in various stages of shock.

"Dad!" Warren rushed from the conference table to his fallen father. The air stirred after him, sweeping papers and glossy reports across the burnished surface.

Worthington II lay in a heap by the presentation screen. His gulps for oxygen were interrupted by another gunshot. The bullet zinged by Angel's head, stinging the edge of his ear. Blood started to pool along the neck of his shirt.

Domino shouted, "Don't think I won't clip you, Angel!"

Warren turned and flared his wings. The primary feathers of his left appendage brushed the curtain covering the east wall window eight feet away.

Preceded by the barrels of two semi-automatic pistols, the lean woman moved forward. "You are one easy target to take down. I know just where to shoot…" Her pupils shifted from left to right as she scanned his wings, "The quick of the carpal joint. They'll never work again."

Warren gripped the head of the thirty-foot long conference table and threw it over as he lifted forty-five feet to the vault of the chamber. Briefcases and crystal water pitchers crashed around Domino and Avalanche while they and Carolyn Cheng and the security guards scurried to escape the careening furniture.

Before Domino could recover from the barrage, Angel arched downward and slammed her to the floor. Her sunglasses skittered into the corner. Pinning her legs with his knees, Warren banged her wrists against the shiny wood. "I'll take your guns."

A wave of kinetic energy rocked the surface beneath them. As the force thrust him aside, Warren caught a momentary glimpse of Avalanche's eyes rolling back into his skull. Domino bounced up, flipped the pistol in her right hand and hammered Angel's temple. His head rolled to the side; his splayed wings stilled.

Standing triumphant over two vanquished Worthingtons, Domino aimed her black-ringed stare at Giles Tareyton, who was cautiously approaching his heaving boss. "One more inch," she pointed one of her guns at his face, "and you're next, fancy guy." Her opposite arm extended the other weapon in a semi-circle. "I'll kill anyone that moves!"

"Just let me help him," Giles pleaded.

"Here's how you help him." Domino pressed the pistol tip to the exterior of Giles' breast pocket. "You got a phone in there?"

"Yes," Giles answered, sounding remarkably steady.

"I bet there's a pilot waiting around in a helicopter on the roof. Tell him to start the rotors. We're leaving."

Giles retrieved the device and spoke into it. "Trey. Prepare for departure… No, I don't know what caused the tremors… Just get the copter ready." He ended the call and asked Domino, "Sufficient?"

"Now pick him up," she ordered, gesturing towards the elder Worthington. Giles hesitated. "Don't worry," she added, "I hit him above the heart and avoided his lungs. He's only suffering from blood loss and mental trauma. He'll live, if you and he do what I say."

Giles raised Worthington II and held the older man in a standing position. "Sir, can you walk?"

A faint whisper came from the CEO, "Yes… I think…"

Domino reversed towards the entry doors, ushering Giles and Worthington out while maintaining her controlling surveillance of the remaining twelve conscious people in the room.

"Who told you about this meeting?" asked Giles.

"What?" For a fleeting instant Domino appeared confused. "Birdie over there," she answered loudly, indicating the comatose Angel. "But she was part of it." Domino switched her accusatory gaze to Carolyn Cheng.

"I…" Carolyn was about to protest her innocence but Domino interrupted her.

"Him too." She swung one gun to implicate Josh Gould. "Damn, he spilled everything!" Josh twitched but uttered nothing. "Actually, it was you, fancy guy," she said finally, focusing on Tareyton as they crossed the threshold. "You were the real spy." She stopped to wink at those left in the conference room. "Goodbye." She nodded to her mulleted associate. "Avalanche, say goodbye to these nice people."

The last thing Carolyn Cheng, Josh Gould, the eight directors and two security guards saw before Domino shut the doors was Avalanche's eyeballs turning inward. The space shook and the entryway collapsed. Large chunks of drywall and distorted steel supports sealed the conference room.

* * *

Jean Grey clapped and hollered "Bravo!" along with hundreds of fellow patrons at the conclusion of the performance. Her hands were her own again. She was suddenly jolted by pangs of fear and anger and pain. Where were these emotions coming from? Many in the audience were hurrying from their seats. Quickly Grey realized she was about to get stuck in a slow-moving mass of people exiting the theater. "Hey, let's leave," she proposed.

Peter and Xi'an flashed uneasy glances. "But they're going to do an encore," Peter objected.

"You're worried about the crowd." Xi'an relaxed her facial muscles to project an aura of calm. "Don't. We won't get crushed, we'll chill until most of them are gone, okay?" Xi'an offered Jean her palms. The viola da gamba player and the harpsichordist began a sonata.

Jean shook her head. "I have to go. You two can stay." She brushed past Xi'an and began weaving her way to the aisle.

"Jean, why are you in such a rush?" asked Peter when he and Xi'an caught up.

"I think something is happening," Jean responded, exiting onto Seventh Avenue.

They halted at the curb. "Something is always happening somewhere." Xi'an stroked Jean's sleeve. "You have to let things happen."

"Not this." Jean swiftly traversed 57th Street, followed by her friends.

* * *

Dust choked the thin strands of light that filtered into the ruined conference space from the edges of the curtain obscuring the panoramic window along the east wall. Carolyn Cheng dramatically tore the material aside, revealing the overcast sky and Central Park.

She heard a mixture of partial conversations – Josh Gould talking to emergency services in an attempt to revive the winged mutant son of the CEO; Halsley Woodhull instructing his wife how to locate various papers, account numbers, codes and keys in case he didn't survive his current predicament; and Toshio Ashida and Guy Spear ironing out succession plans with their vice presidents.

Carolyn was fairly confident no one would notice and, even less likely, listen in on her communication as she placed a call to a very exclusive number. "Steven, tell Trask we have a situation. Scenario 28. There were two – a female and a male, both young. She was in charge… I didn't recognize them. I heard the names 'Domino' and 'Avalanche.' How would I know whether or not they're Priority One? Giles never gave me access. You want to talk to him? Well, you can't; they grabbed him too, and they're taking the helicopter."

Josh had used his shirt to clean the blood from Warren's forehead and loosened his friend's tie and collar. "He's breathing," he said into the speaker of his phone as he searched Angel's neck for his carotid artery. "Okay, I'm counting the beats… one… two… Uh huh. All right, I'll check." Josh's thumb peeled back Warren's left eyelid.

Warren immediately grabbed Josh's hand and pushed it away from his now fully opened piercing blue eyes.

* * *

The sun emerged from the blanket of fog that had kept it cocooned all day. It fired Jean's red hair as she ran north on Broadway towards Columbus Circle. The immense Worthington Corporate Center dominated the cityscape. Peter and Xi'an had barely reached her when the traffic signal on 58th Street changed.

"Jean, stop. What are you doing?" asked Peter, breathlessly, while they were crossing.

"Where are you going?" Xi'an's placid demeanor had crumbled.

"There. I think."

Police vehicles and ambulances converged on Columbus Circle. Officers began shutting down vehicular traffic and erecting barricades to prevent pedestrians from approaching the Worthington complex. Peter glanced at Jean's adamantium vest; the straps were coming undone.

* * *

"Warren, you're okay!" cried Josh joyously.

Halsley Woodhull and Toshio Ashida paused mid-call to observe the restored Angel.

"Where's my dad?" Warren pulled in his wings and rose to his feet. He studied the pile of debris where the entrance doors had stood.

"The mutants took him and Giles." Josh was amazed at Warren's recovery. "They're leaving in the helicopter, probably taking off as we speak..." A thwacking noise above changed in amplitude.

Warren hurried to the window. Sunshine had dissolved the stratus veil. A glinting Buckman 507 dropped into view heading northeast over Central Park.

"Listen, you were out cold a second ago, Warren." Josh's brows ridged with worry. "You shouldn't be moving a whole lot…"

Angel picked up one of the steel frame conference chairs, smashed its base through the glass, and leapt through the jagged opening.

The fierce influx of wind pummeled the trapped executives and staff with bits of glass and insulation. "Steven," Carolyn gazed through protective fingers at Warren's receding form, "Worthington's son is going after them." Angel was gaining on the aircraft as it passed over the Park ball fields. "What? No, he's not in another copter. He jumped out the window. Of course he didn't fall. He's a mutant, with wings; he can fly. You didn't know? Have you spent the last month under a rock? All right, I suppose you have. The press calls him 'the Angel.'"

* * *

Within the passenger cabin of the Buckman helicopter, Lance Alvers curled in his seat, clutching his stomach with one hand and the Glock 9mm Domino had entrusted to him with the other. He was desperately trying to avoid seeing either the sun beaming above or the parkland shrinking below.

Sitting opposite, Giles Tareyton wrapped the exposed bleeding flesh of Worthington II's shoulder with a bandage from the in-flight first aid kit. The older man was fading in and out, but Tareyton appeared alert and unfazed. The gauze purpled with blood in seconds. Giles draped Worthington's suit jacket over the wound and continued to apply pressure through the fine wool.

While struggling to contain his heaving guts, Avalanche dropped the gun. The weapon thumped on the carpeted floor. Giles saw that Worthington had noticed the opportunity as well. Tareyton bent slowly and reached for the firearm.

The toe of a black leather boot came down on his fingers. Domino pushed the barrel of the gun she had in her hand into Giles' nose. "Are you gonna make me blow your head off?"

"What do you expect me to do?" asked Giles. "He let go of the gun."

Domino snatched the fallen pistol and used it to whack Lance across the face. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Lance grabbed at his throbbing cheek and sat up rigidly; he was enraged. "You and Mystique both know I hate flying! Makes me sick… My powers don't even work up here."

"I'm not asking for an earthquake." Domino's sharpness cut through Avalanche's nausea. "If you want to live through this job, you better hold onto this." She placed the handle in his grip and centered the aperture on Giles' chest. "Fancy guy makes another move, fancy guy bites it."

She swung back into the forward section and shouted at the pilot, "You stick to the course I gave you! And speed the hell up. This thing can go 160 knots. What are we doing now? Twenty?" She scratched his stubbly jaw with her remaining hard-shelled Glock. "Don't think you aren't expendable. I can fly this thing, no problem." Just then the helicopter yawed forty degrees to the right. Domino fell into the pilot. She rapidly regained her footing and smacked him with her gun. "You want to die!"

"No! I didn't do that!" His knuckles were trembling. "Something's out there…"

"Don't get any ideas." Domino ducked into the passenger area. Lance was cowering by the right side exit clinging tenuously to the gun. Domino separated the pistol from his grasp, planted him in his seat and fastened the belt. She swayed casually as she turned to check on Giles and the CEO. Finding Worthington II secured and unconscious, she moved on to Tareyton. Holding the guns above her head, she kneeled on either side of Giles' lap and kissed him deeply. "Do you like my work?" she asked.

"I don't know yet," he answered. "I'll tell you when it's finished."

She lifted off him. "Watch things," she told Lance, who was glaring at her. She yanked open the exit door. The rush of air made Lance shield his face and snapped Giles' necktie. Domino wound one of the thick vinyl restraints around her right arm and leaned out. She spied Angel riding the skids of the aircraft.

He met her predatory stare. "Let me take my father!" he yelled over the wind shear.

"Get outta here!" She screamed while pointing her weapons.

The sunlight lit his eyes. His wings looked huge. "You're going to start a war!"

"I'm gonna shoot you down, you idiot! This time I'm aiming straight for your heart!"

"Domino, you can stop this! It's not too late…"

"That's my boy," cried Worthington II, who had awoken abruptly inside the vessel. "Here to save the goddamned da..." His words were broken by the sound of gunfire.

* * *

Two brass-colored projectiles, each approximately an inch long, were milliseconds away from shattering Warren's sternum and obliterating the left and right ventricles of his heart. There was no escape. He felt every muscle tense, bracing for the pain.

But the bullets stopped, centimeters from his chest, and hung, gleaming in mid-air. Some invisible force had suspended all motion - the wind had ceased and the blades of the helicopter's propeller were frozen.

"What the f**k? I can't move!" shouted a furious Domino as her pistols were pried from her fingers. "No!"

The guns flew out of her hands and hovered five feet away. The cartridges threatening Warren reversed direction and zoomed back into the cylinders that had fired them. The weapons exploded, splintering into hundreds of tiny metal and plastic pieces. Then the floating fragments disintegrated into specks of dust, which swirled into nothingness in the wake of a rising Jean Grey. She had dispensed with the adamantium flak jacket and wore simply a trim red sweater, black miniskirt and tights. Her scarlet tresses arced like surging currents in an angry sea.

"Oh god…" murmured Domino.

Jean sailed within a pinky length of Domino's paralyzed profile. "You have no idea." The gold streaks in Grey's green eyes sparked as she bore into the other woman's psyche. "You don't know the plan. How can you trust her?" Jean glided into the aircraft's interior.

Warren realized he could move his wings and flew by her side. "You're reading their minds?"

"Yes. I have to." Jean drifted over to Avalanche.

"Great. Jean Grey, teen queen of the X-Men." Lance's words cracked from his stone-still jaw.

"They told you absolutely nothing, Lance. I thought things would only get worse for you." Jean revolved to examine Giles and Warren Worthington II.

All strength had drained from the CEO. His papery skin was soaked with sweat. Each weak breath made him shudder. "Don't come nn near me… brain-sucker, fr-freak… Mm monster!" His trembling teeth shredded every third syllable.

Giles tried to look away. "You do not have the right to psychically violate Mr. Worthington or myself or any employee of the Worthington Corporation!"

"Warren, take your father." Jean touched Angel's wrist. "You have to get him to Metropolitan Hospital. They'll be waiting on the roof. They won't understand why exactly, but they'll be ready."

"I won't leave Giles." The older man failed to pat his assistant. "Won't let y-you… suck his mind dry…"

"Mr. Worthington, there is no human mind in your friend's head. Unlike you and everyone else, there's a void inside him. Which makes sense. Because he doesn't exist. He's not a person; he's just a persona." Jean caught Tareyton's focus with her stare and held him. "A disguise."

"Let me go!" the young man growled in an unfamiliar guttural voice.

"Stop her!" Worthington rasped. His wavering sight sought out his son. Angel didn't acknowledge him.

"The blankness is a smokescreen. The real mind is behind it. Show yourself!" Jean commanded.

"You can't make me…" The veins in Giles' throat bulged.

"I can. How deep do you want me to dig, Mystique?" Jean bent closer. "Want me to claw through your prefrontal cortex?"

"Noooahhh!" A howl transformed into a long low laugh as greenish-gray eyes paled to yellow, blond hair turned the color of blood, and a ruddy complexion darkened to shocking indigo. The twill wool suit vanished, leaving the CEO of the Worthington Corporation quivering next to a cackling, naked, blue, female mutant.

Jean sent sleep-inducing impulses through the older man's nervous system as she levitated his body into the arms of his son. "You must go," she urged Angel. She floated out the exit hatch.

Warren stopped at the grooved steel sill. "You want me to leave you with them? Alone? No way." Warren wondered if she sensed his readiness to sacrifice his father's safety for hers. _I won't abandon you._

"He's going to die in minutes if you don't get him to the hospital." Hovering outside the helicopter, Jean spoke with unblinking certainty. "I don't need you to deal with Mystique. I've handled her before. And this is done." Jean telekinetically lifted the immobilized Domino and deposited her next to Lance. "I'm about to seal the cabin and deliver these guys to the MRD."

Mystique's demonic laughter continued. Angel guessed her intention was to disturb them. It was working, on him anyway. Jean's expression softened for a moment and then grew starkly serious. "Please, Warren. Go."

* * *

Warren looked down as he sprang from the helicopter carrying his limp, sedated parent. Directly beneath, the bronze head of the angel crowning the Bethesda Fountain, the guardian of the city's water supply, gleamed atop her outstretched metal wings. Tourists and regular New Yorkers surrounding the fountain were staring up at him and Jean and the static helicopter hanging in the sky.

He felt embarrassed by his wings – which he hadn't experienced for years. Did the people watching think he was some kind of heavenly protector? He was further from the true thing than the inanimate golden statue. He couldn't defend Jean if he gave his life trying, not from mutants like Mystique and Domino. Basically, he was a big, ridiculously easy target. Domino would have killed him, effortlessly, if Jean hadn't stopped the bullets. Grey was probably better off without him – one less worry.

As his shadow passed over the inverted conic tiers of the Guggenheim Museum, his sight shifted to the Metropolitan Hospital complex that occupied East 97th to 99th Street on Second Avenue. He was one minute away. Miniature white and blue-coated figures were wheeling equipment onto the roof. A reflection captured his attention – a white blip high in the atmosphere. The flicker approaching central Manhattan soon developed into a jet-shaped machine. The rate of its increasing size relative to the horizon could only be explained by extreme acceleration.

It was a Reaper. He was sure of it. He recalled Mystique in the guise of Giles Tareyton describing an omicron signal pulse with the capacity to "knock Jean Grey unconscious." Warren looked back; Jean was in the Sentinel's direct path.

He now interpreted Mystique's maniacal cackles minutes earlier as victorious crowing. She had played quite a game. Posing as Tareyton, she'd manipulated his father and Bolivar Trask, as well as the United States Military into producing a Sentinel streamlined to destroy her most hated enemies – Magneto, Ororo, Scott, and perhaps greatest of all, Jean. Rogue had told him how Jean had singlehandedly beaten Mystique to a mangled lump when she discovered the blue mutant on the verge of murdering an incapacitated Scott Summers.

Mystique's deceit must have also included keeping herself and her lieutenants off the Priority One list. Warren was convinced the rocketing Sentinel was currently pursuing a single objective: destroy Jean Grey.

Flying as fast as he could – without the burden of his father's body – it would take him two minutes minimum to return to Jean and the helicopter. The Reaper's present speed was likely in excess of Mach 1; it would have Grey in close range in thirty seconds or less. In twenty seconds, it would zoom past him, and possibly register his existence as being as significant as a flock of sparrows, even though he had in his care the CEO of the Worthington Corporation.

An idea, a way to save Jean flashed in his mind. If the Reaper wasn't programmed with any battle scenarios involving him, he could surprise it. He could grab hold of the fuselage before it got to Jean and maybe ride the thing down to the ground… And though carbon fiber and ceramic materials were enormously difficult to bend, a high shock impact could crack the stuff like eggshells. He could punch through its skin and tear out its computer brain.

There was just one obstacle: his dad's dead weight in his arms. The man's features were the color of plaster. His mouth was open, stuck in the midst of a cry. Was he still breathing? He might already be gone. Warren had three seconds to choose: drop the father he hated or let the girl he loved die.


	37. The Fountain

**Chapter 36 – The Fountain**

Sailing northeast at an altitude of twelve hundred feet, Warren tracked the Reaper as it closed in – nine hundred meters, five hundred, one hundred… All he had to do was drop the old man and dive.

But his arms locked. He couldn't let go. Vortices spinning off the Sentinel tossed him and his charge into a steep roll as the Reaper hurtled on to attack Jean.

Now he wished Domino's bullets had punctured the chambers of his heart, because his rib cage was cracking. Viscous hatred for the creature in his grasp swelled with every thump of circulation. He never thought he could hate anything so much. "If she dies, and you live, I'll kill you," he swore and swooped downward.

"Take him!" he yelled at a confused group of Metropolitan Hospital personnel as he dumped his unconscious father onto a waiting gurney. The instant the burden was gone he soared, catching an updraft along the leeward side of the building. While climbing into the sky he glimpsed a new shining white spot bearing 240º. If he could ascend fast enough, he had another chance to catch a half-minute flight to the airspace above the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.

* * *

Navigating Mystique's labyrinthine mental pathways would be a formidable challenge for Jean even if she weren't simultaneously suspending a three thousand pound aircraft, three mutants and a human pilot hostage. Ironically, the greatest hindrance to her progress was weightless; she couldn't abide the creepy commentary slipping through the shapeshifter's teeth.

"So you and Angel? Love it, Jean."

"We're not together. You can end the speculation."

"Sure, whatever you say… You know, even before you X-Men betrayed me, I never liked Scott. He's so full of himself. I always wondered why Xavier put him in charge of the kids instead of you. You are obviously superior. Guess old Charlie's always been worried you'd lose control. It's the only thing that really scares the dear Professor. But I find it exciting, seeing you using your abilities so freely. And I bet you're still holding back…"

Jean rotated with the aircraft, turning southwest, while maintaining a fix on Mystique's yellow irises. Grey was beginning to get a clear picture of the shapeshifter's activities as Giles. Random conversation snippets and visual recollections were gradually congealing into a coherent chronology of the development of a deadly new Sentinel called a Reaper. If she could concentrate she could unravel the whole story. But Mystique kept talking.

"Those feathers must be nice to play with. Maybe I'll try it sometime. Drop in on him, wearing all Grey."

_Shut up already._ Jean thoroughly froze the muscles of Mystique's vocal tract. Moments ago she'd sent Domino and Lance to slumberland. Glancing at them snoozing in their seats, troubling no one, made her really want to cut off Mystique's synaptic activity too. But Jean figured if negotiating the serpentine curves of the metamorph's conscious self was hard, extracting information from her subconscious – where there would be no way to distinguish truth from fiction – would be significantly more difficult.

_You want to chat privately? This is so intimate, Jean. Just the two of us, sharing our thoughts…_

Mystique projected a scene onto the main screen of the psychic theater formed by their combined perception. In the invented sequence the blue mutant rose from her seat and moved to the open hatch of the cabin. Feathered wings like Warren's stretched behind her. She launched into the air and wrapped Jean in a tight embrace. Jean's lips curled in horror, resisting Mystique's pressing purple mouth.

_You're disgusting! _Grey shouted inside Mystique's brain, while slashing the offensive fantasy to frayed threads of memory._ I don't care what you know. You're going to sleep!_

_No, you're going to sleep, Jean. Forever._

Jean spun around. A photonic explosion burst the meniscus of her force field. She immediately rebuilt the barrier. She quickly identified the origin of the strike – an eyeless airborne machine thirty meters distant. It was a Sentinel Reaper Mark I.

Grey wasn't given a second to contemplate the hostile robot's next move. A massive psionic wave broke through the telepathic walls protecting her mind. Tremors rumbled the base of her skull; deep fissures severed her awareness. Erupting darkness filled her head.

* * *

Warren clung to the weapon mounts attached to the underside of Reaper number two. His appendages extended just two feet shy of the wingspan of the craft. He flexed them to mimic the airfoil of the Sentinel, in an effort to reduce resistance as much as possible. If he could get there in time he could save her. _Hang on, Jean…_ He was two and a half miles from the Fountain when he saw her.

The hot jets of the first Reaper boiled the air, rippling Jean's image. She held her head in pain, yet her eyes were wide open. Then her expression went blank; she flung out her arms and fell backwards. From her current height it would take no more than ten seconds for her body to hit the ground. Angel pushed off, knowing he was too late.

The shadows cast by the restarted propeller blades whipped across her plummeting form as the helicopter sped away without triggering pursuit by either Reaper. Warren pulled in his wings as tightly as he could to maximize his downward velocity. But he was still hundreds of feet above when the shallow waters of the Bethesda Fountain caught her. The onlookers below fled as Grey smacked the lily-strewn surface of the large pool.

_No…_ he cried inside, while he watched the dark green liquid close over her face and swallow her trailing red locks. He plunged like an arrow, his clenched wings speeding his descent. Sheets of water streamed skyward from his crash-landing. His kneecaps cracked against the hard stone bottom; fluid rushed up his nose; uneven paving slashed his palms. He coughed liquid from his lungs and dragged himself to the figure floating near the center of the three-foot deep, hundred-foot wide basin.

Jean wasn't breathing. Her torso was static as she bobbed on the diminishing waves from his impact. The bronze wings of the angel overhead shaded her lifeless, empty eyes. Warren gathered her to his chest. She was cold. She couldn't be…dead.

"Oh, god, Jean…" He pulled his hand from the back of her wet hair. It was covered in blood. Warren spread his feathered limbs. The peal of sirens from the host of fire trucks and ambulances crowding Columbus Circle twelve blocks south determined his destination. The EMTs could resuscitate her heart, get her breathing again, set up a transfusion… His blood could revive her. _Don't break,_ he told himself. He did his best to ignore the stinging sensations shooting from his knees and scraped flesh and took flight with Jean in his arms.

Her dripping clothes soaked his suit jacket and chilled his skin. "Jean, don't leave me." He focused on the horizon while he spoke. He didn't want to see her staring into forever. As he sensed all hope sinking, he spied the two Reapers still humming above. Were they going to obliterate him and Jean's inactive body in a shameless photonic assault? Maybe he wanted them to. But the units simply remained at alert, waiting.

Had the machines concluded their mission was a success? If so, why hadn't they departed? Could they be holding their fire because the famous 'Angel of the Waters' was one of the most cherished landmarks of Central Park? Almost clear of the Fountain and adjoining Terrace, he was about to find out.

The sounds followed the shock. Something unseen halted him in mid-air. Vibrations shook his skeleton. He turned his head and witnessed multiple photonic discharges being repelled by an invisible shield. Instead of incinerating him, each flare sizzled and popped into ether. Then he noticed his forearms felt like they were burning; it was heat coming from her. She rose from his hold, her eyes shining like stars. The air around her combusted. Blinding wings of flame lifted her into the sky.

"Jean!" he called, climbing after her.

He imagined the Reapers were futilely searching their data for applicable scenarios while they slammed Grey with the highest amplitude omicron waves they could produce. Within seconds they had spent the last of their payload and nothing had affected their target. The fiery falcon-shaped aura emanating from the incandescent girl engulfed the machines, absorbing their final photonic volleys.

Jean reversed the Sentinels' construction layer by layer. Their ceramic coating peeled off in strips. The carbon fiber material underneath disintegrated, which exposed the barely perceptible graphene latticework containing their circuitry. Grey's inferno instantly consumed the gossamer-like weave.

When no trace was left, her corona contracted, yet still blazed bright. Angel circled up from her feet. Looking into her eyes was like staring at the sun. He blinked while forcing his vision to adjust. "Jean, I thought you were dead." He reached for her.

She pulled back. "Don't. I might burn you..."

"You won't. You were in my arms, you would have burned me already." He showed her his fine wool sleeves were not singed. "It's okay."

She let him take her hands. The contact unleashed a torrent of energy. It surged through him, making his blue eyes glow and his every hair and feather stand on end. Exhilaration extinguished the pain from his busted kneecaps and torn skin. His flesh might not be burning, but his senses were on fire.

_I have to stop Mystique._ Her psychic voice came from all directions at once.

Warren didn't loosen his grip. _I can help._

A subtle smile raised the corners of her mouth.

* * *

In nine seconds they traveled nine miles. Warren was uncertain whether it was the power Jean had given him or her command of matter itself that prevented his body from being crushed by the multiplied g-force from their unbelievable acceleration. They passed over the dense neighborhoods, massive expressway tangles and multilane bridges of Upper Manhattan, Randall's Island and the Bronx faster than any human ever had.

The expanse of Long Island Sound lay directly ahead when the Buckman helicopter came in view. The craft was about to intersect a large flock of migrating geese. The 507 unexpectedly lurched 90º and the right front crew door opened. The pilot Domino and Avalanche had taken hostage was ejected. Before Warren became aware of his actions, he had caught the falling man.

"Thank you…" the civilian struggled to say, and then passed out.

Jean effortlessly seized control of the helicopter and its occupants. Squinting at her brilliance, Warren rose beside her carrying the pilot. "Strap him in next to Lance," she told Angel.

Domino was awake, thrust against the ceiling, blocking her sight with her wrists. "Birdie must be here… I hear wings."

Warren didn't respond while placing the unconscious human next to the sleeping Avalanche.

"Come on, I know it's you," Domino kept going. "Can't you at least ask Jean Almighty to switch off the high-intensity halo? I can't see shit."

"Where's Mystique?" he asked Grey.

"Gone. She flew off with those geese."

"Does she know where Mystique is going?" he asked, glancing at Domino.

"No." Jean telekinetically removed the belt from one of the rear passenger seats and used it to sew Domino to the hard plastic roof of the cabin.

Domino called to Angel. "Birdie, make sure she gets this because I don't think she can understand much with all that brain between her ears!" Domino attempted to appear threatening while she shouted at Jean's shining figure, "Hey brain star! The MRD can't hold me. No one can. I always luck out one way or another. So you better melt me right here or I'll make you regret it. I promise!"

Jean glided up to Domino's face. "You think you can kill me? You'll need a lot more than luck." Domino scrunched her eyelids closed and turned from Grey's piercing light. Jean continued, "Because I can't seem to stay dead. But people like you break easy. I'll scatter your bits to the wind."

"So why don't you do it? Blow me to smithereens and get it over with!"

"I'm not like you. Tearing people apart isn't my idea of fun. But I will, if you ever try to hurt him again. Now, dreamtime." Domino immediately shut down. Jean whirled outside. Warren followed. Grey scanned the horizon for the flock. "I can find Mystique."

Angel flew in front of her and grasped her fingers. "You can do anything, it looks like." As her energy shot up his anterior nerves he penetrated her distant stare. "But maybe we should deliver Domino and your friend Lance to the MRD first."

* * *

The man Jean Grey knew as 'Peter Wyngarde' looked across Columbus Circle at the monument that flanked the gate to Central Park. The gilded goddess driving the seahorse chariot at its summit glowed reddish-gold in the afternoon light. Peter raised his free arm (the one that was not lugging Jean's weighted vest) and tapped Xi'an, directing her attention to the same place. Beyond the tips of Lady Columbia's gleaming wreath a dot grew in the sky. It rapidly expanded, becoming a sleek Buckman 507 with a prominent red and black letter 'W' printed on its exterior.

Though its propeller remained fixed, the aircraft smoothly lowered to the pavement at the base of the fifty-five-foot memorial. Astonished special ops agents and local law enforcement officers dashed to clear the area. As the helicopter's skids touched the asphalt, a dazzlingly bright reflection seared its shiny skin. The light source was a slender form hovering eight hundred feet high.

Peter and Xi'an shaded their eyes, along with hundreds of other spectators, and blinked at the being blazing above like a second sun. _ My god. She's manifesting the raptor,_ Wyngarde communicated psychically. _So magnificent… Something serious indeed must have happened._

_Look at Worthington. _Xi'an gazed at the winged outline soaring beside the burning girl. _She's releasing energy through him. We're losing her__, kapetánios._

_Oh you are wrong, poulári. Angel's on our side. He wants the same thing we do. He wants her to defy Xavier._ Peter's inner voice rang with confidence. _That's all we have to do. Break her bond with the old Professor. Once that's gone, the Phoenix will fully emerge. And Warren may be the one to set her free._

_But if she falls in love he'll become her cornerstone, her anchor… _Xi'an was not going to suppress her concerns. _She won't need us anymore._

_The Angel's no anchor. Jean will realize that if she hasn't already. It'd be like tying herself to a cloud. He's a lightweight. He doesn't have the slightest idea of what she is. Just wait. She'll come down to us._

* * *

The commotion eight hundred feet below might as well have been a million miles away. Neither of them beheld with satisfaction the MRD agents swarming the cabin of the 507. The fleet of press copters buzzing about annoyed them no more than a thimbleful of gnats. Their eyes were locked on each other, their fingers intertwined.

Jean broke the spell. "I have to go."

"What about Mystique?" His blue eyes flashed while a rising thermal billowed his wings.

Jean shook her head. _I can't control this…_

_Yes you can. You are._

"No, I…I'm sorry." She parted his digits and dove.

He went after her. "You're going down there now? In the middle of that circus?" He had to shout to compensate for the friction.

_Warren, go to the hospital. Your father needs you, he needs your blood._

They were five hundred feet from the ground and closing swiftly.

_Jean, those MRD guys might try to take you into custody._

_Don't worry. They can't touch me._

_Jean…_ Angel pulled up a mere ninety feet from the ranks of security and throngs of media. He watched Grey alight on the sidewalk along the west side of Columbus Circle. She landed within arm's length of two people he recognized from the previous night – her 'friend' Peter Wyngarde and the young Asian woman who'd worn the green velvet dress.

MRD troops trampled police, emergency workers, television reporters and several everyday citizens in their rush to surround Jean and the others. Ten agents encircled the blazing telekinetic. Right before they positioned their weapons Grey suspended the entire unit plus dozens of other possible antagonists mid-action.

Peter passed Jean her adamantium jacket and the three joined hands. The flames of the firebird spread, momentarily lifting their bodies. Then, like candles in a whirlwind, the brilliant force flickered out, distilled to tiny bonfires which sparkled in their eyes. They dropped hands while entering the 59th Street subway station. Anyone who encountered them on the train would assume they were three normal young Manhattanites who'd gone out for a concert and a walk in the Park.

* * *

_Why does she do this to me?_ wondered Angel while he surfed the air currents above the late evening skyline. During the six hours that had elapsed since they parted he hadn't been able to clear his mind of Jean for an instant. Though the power she'd ignited within him had dwindled to a smoldering cinder, the intensity of her presence was undiminished and unquenchable.

He slowed to reestablish his bearings. Where was he, exactly? The familiar markers of nighttime Manhattan lay beneath lacy curtains of gently falling snow. His sight swept past the beaming crowns of the Midtown towers to the circular intersection of 110th Street and Eighth Avenue at the northern tip of Central Park. Jean's residence hall was six blocks north.

Flying low over the steeple of Saint John the Divine he sensed a dynamic change in atmospheric pressure. Normally he'd interpret such a precipitous shift as a prelude to a large thunderstorm, or a blizzard, or a hurricane. But Warren had listened to the weather report and recent experience had taught him that a bizarre localized alteration in air density was a good clue that a phenomenon named Ororo Munroe was in the vicinity. Angel ceased moving forward, maintaining his position over Morningside Park and 113th Street with short, lateral wing strokes.

He considered the Windrider's ability to fly many times faster, higher, and, for all he knew, longer than he could, even with the increased speed and stamina he retained from his contact with Jean. Plus she could freeze his feathers, or spin a cyclone to pound him into the earth or toss him beyond a survivable altitude, or just fry him with a lightning bolt. _ What does being electrocuted feel like?_

_Not good, I bet._

It was Jean's voice. Was he totally crazy or was she really there?

_You're not crazy. I don't think. It's me. Storm is leaving…_

The dense system departed. The three blocks to the thirtieth floor of the Hamilton Residence Hall went by so fast it seemed to Warren that the distance simply disappeared. Grey was standing by her window, backlit by a few interior lamps. He identified two others in the top story apartment – Peter and Xi'an. They were bent over their laptops, divided by stacks of folders, books and papers, shivering and protesting.

"You have to close the window!" Xi'an shouted. "I'm freezing to death."

"For heaven's sake, Jean, it's bloody snowing again!" cried Peter.

"But Warren's here." Grey's toes lifted off the floor; she wasn't wearing the vest.

"Either you fly out, or tell him to fly in, because I'm cold!" Xi'an grabbed her coat and bundled up on the couch.

Jean didn't bother to snag a sweater. She glided into the late evening sky wearing only leggings, a long-sleeved cotton shirt and socks. "Warren?" she called out, searching for his iconic shape. She sensed his location, but initially she was confused. She saw only a set of wings, illuminated by the ambient light from neighboring high rises. His body remained dark. She guessed he was wearing some kind of light absorbing fabric.

She couldn't clearly see his face until she drifted nearer. A northbound breeze whistled as it filtered through his feathers. "Ororo won't be gone long," she told him. "I played on her plant care anxieties. I made her forget she watered the begonias this morning…"

Warren traced her outfit with his eyes. "The cold doesn't bother you."

"No. Not for a while. You don't have a coat on either." An abrupt gust whipped through the waves of her hair.

"I've never felt chilled. Not in the air." Angel's wings rose on the wind pocket. "I think it's a flying adaptation."

Jean sailed upwards with him. "How's your father?" she asked as they leveled out.

"He'll recover. He demanded to be moved to the estate so a whole hospital ward followed him out to Long Island."

They coasted on the swirling updrafts from the teeming urban streets; their orbiting figures formed an escalating helix. Jean savored the expanding view of city. The dancing snowflakes made the lights below scintillate. "You're right. It is better to see it from the air."

Warren circled in until merely inches separated them. "Jean, let me take you somewhere tomorrow night."

"Oh… I don't know. I have midterms starting Monday." She sensed the vortices generated by his flight feathers curling up her legs.

"My family has a box at Lincoln Center, we never use it, and it's the season premiere, they're performing Giselle..."

"What's Giselle?" Jean was embarrassed to ask.

"It's a ballet. There's this dancer everybody's talking about – Rachel Dunbar – she's in it."

"I really have to study."

"Isn't that what you're doing tonight?"

The glimmering metropolis beneath grew smaller and smaller. "Yes, but, there's a lot…"

A biting gale blew in from the Hudson. Warren folded his wings to shelter her. They pulled together as the high winds twirled them like a top. The blast ebbed and their spinning decelerated. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine." Her upper arms tingled from his touch. She smelled salt and ice crystals.

"Jean, you keep saving my life." Each word brought his lips closer to hers. "You've got to let me do something for you."

"You did. I came back because of you."

"What do you mean? You 'came back'?" Warren's brow tightened.

_I was dead._ They were now far enough beyond the light pollution and the cumulus cloud layer that the stars and the moon were revealed with pristine clarity. Jean glimpsed star clusters she didn't know existed.

"You didn't die. You're here and you're alive – that's the definition of 'not dead'."

"I think I died before. When I was ten, there was this car accident, and everybody told me my friend was killed but I was spared. I wasn't hurt at all. I know that's not the real story. I got hit, and something brought me back to life. My parents, the driver of the car, the family across the road – they all saw the firebird. The Professor rewrote their memories so I wouldn't find out. He even altered his own." Her expression shifted. She appeared remote, focused on cosmic objects light years away. "It's within me. Each resurrection makes it stronger."

"Jean, if you came back from the dead, don't you want to experience life? I've heard there's stuff people do – they go to shows and see art and eat dinner and…" The surrounding thermals pushed them closer. His cheek brushed hers. "It's just one night," he said softly by her ear.

The warmth of his breath set off sparks in her mind. "I… I'd love to," she listened to herself say. Was she really going to do this? The Professor would lose all faith in her if he found out. Scott might hate her forever. "I'll have to create some sort of decoy."

"They're watching you all the time?"

"The Professor's concerned after what happened today."

"But you stayed in complete control. You saved lives. I don't get it."

"Warren, when I'm like that – all fiery – I can sense the energy, the motion of the universe… stars burning and galaxies turning." Jean's gaze became luminous. "What if next time I can't turn it off?" Her eyes flared. "Or what if I don't want to?"

"I don't care what the Professor's said, the something that keeps raising you from the dead – it's you. When you're 'all fiery', you're still Jean. You're still you. I've seen it. I've felt it."

"That may not always be true…"

"Jean, you didn't blow Domino to smithereens even though you knew if she'd had the advantage, she would've shot you without hesitating for a second. You had the power to do whatever you wanted. You chose to do the right thing."

Jean pressed her right temple. "Ororo's on her way back from the mansion."

"I'll take you home."

They spiraled hand in hand down to the window on the thirtieth floor. Jean hovered by the sill. "I'm glad you came by."

He gripped her palm. "Tomorrow at quarter to eight, the Opera House at Lincoln Center."

"Could we meet somewhere nearby first? Someplace a little more low key? I've never been to Lincoln Center."

"How about the Fountain in the Park? 7:30?" He allowed a smile to bloom for the span of two seconds. "It was that bronze angel that brought you back. There wouldn't have been anything left to resurrect if those Reapers had fired after you fell. Cultural heritage to the rescue."

Grey opened the window and flew inside. She moved quickly to shut the pane and avoid any further complaints about the temperature. She watched him through the glass._ Goodnight._

_Goodnight, Jean._ Angel looped around while twisting his body 180º and headed downtown towards Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street.


	38. One Night

**Chapter 37 – One Night**

Xi'an replayed the clip. The laptop speakers made the audio sound crispy. "They saved my life and Mr. Worthington's too. Not all mutants hate normal people. No one should believe that. It's garbage, man. Lies." Trey Murrell, the Worthington Corporation helicopter pilot, had been interviewed after the MRD removed the two unconscious mutants from the Buckman aircraft. Twenty-six hours had passed since the recording and the video had become ubiquitous, saturating every level of the mediascape.

"Jean, check it out," Xi'an beckoned from the desk. Grey was lingering by the window. "Over a million views..." Jean wasn't budging so Xi'an left her chair. "Peter and I were wrong to try to stop you," she said while approaching the sill. "What you did, you and Angel, it was amazing."

"Amazing. Really?" Jean continued to focus on the evening sky. "Well, the Professor doesn't want me doing anything remotely 'amazing' ever again."

"Um, I thought we were closing the curtains and staying away from the window."

"Scott's gone. Ororo's not out there yet." Jean's voice sharpened. "We must be between shifts."

"You're not in happy mood. Did Xavier call this afternoon?" Xi'an asked.

"Right before you got here."

"Does he use the phone or," Xi'an bugged out her eyes and stuck her fingers to her temples, "pop straight into your head?"

Jean caught the gesture. She laughed and pulled back from the exterior world. "He called my cell."

Xi'an was pleased she'd finally hooked Grey's attention. "You know, I don't understand why he keeps criticizing you. The reaction in the city, it's been overwhelmingly positive…"

"Not with the Friends of Humanity." Jean scratched her knuckles as she struggled to suppress the urge to vent her anger by making the nearest object explode. "They were out there shouting all day."

A small contingent of thuggish young skinheads, overweight middle-aged men and self-righteous helmet-haired women had picketed outside Hamilton Hall from sunrise until moments before. Yelling "Mutants Kill People!" they had shoved signs proclaiming "Stop THEM while WE can!" in front of every person who entered or exited the dorm.

"Those creeps were totally outnumbered." Xi'an rubbed Jean's arm. "You didn't see how the students treated those clowns. When I came in, the kids were spitting on them. You and Warren are heroes. Most people know that. Who cares about a tiny number of jerks?"

"Politicians care. And the number isn't tiny. They're growing. The Professor said the situation is volatile."

Xi'an became indignant. "Did he actually say he wished you'd done nothing? 'Cause if you hadn't stopped those bullets from Domino's gun Warren would be dead and the CEO of the Worthington Corporation would be a hostage somewhere. Things would be unimaginably worse for everyone! Your Professor would have a war on his doorstep instead of a bunch of reporters and a busload of bigots." Xi'an held Grey's wrist. "You didn't go after that helicopter to create a spectacle. You went to save a friend. How could that be the wrong decision?"

"The Professor didn't say it was. He only asked me to keep a low profile and stick to the campus."

"So you're thinking about not going?" Xi'an's eyes widened again.

"I'm not sure. Even though you bought that…"

"Forty-five dollars." Xi'an sidestepped to pluck a long red wig from a shopping bag resting on the couch. The color was so vibrant it was cartoonish. "Final sale."

"It's just that I've never deceived them like this. You're going to wear that? And pretend to be me?"

Xi'an drew the curtains. "I'll stay on the far side of the room and at ten o'clock I'll flick off the lights and act like I'm going to sleep early." Xi'an crossed to the mirror and pulled on the wig. "Super scary electrocution lady is just checking things out from up in the clouds, right?"

"That's all she did last night. But if Logan comes instead, he'll know."

"How? Don't tell me that Wolverine guy is a telepath. He does not fit the mold." Xi'an feigned Jean-esque poses while adjusting the hairpiece.

Jean's mood remained serious. "He's a tracker. It's this weird, animal kind of thing. He can trace scents. And if I'm not here and you are..."

"There're twelve hundred students in this building." Xi'an turned. "He's gonna sniff the air on Morningside Drive and be able to tell instantly that there's no Jean?"

"I doubt it'll be him. But I don't know for certain."

"You could know. If you wanted." Xi'an swung her fake hair.

"What? Tap all of their brains and find out everything they're planning to do?"

Xi'an did not respond verbally but raised an eyebrow.

"Well, maybe I could… But I'm not going to." Jean walked to her bed. "This is crazy." She sighed and fell onto the coverlet.

"Any girl would think you were crazy." Xi'an moved to the bed and slid beside her friend. "Not showing for a date with the Angel?" Xi'an's fingertips massaged Grey's spine through the cotton fabric of her top. "Are you actually blind, using psycho waves to get around? You have looked at the guy, right? 'Cause he's really, really…"

"He is…" Jean gently brushed Xi'an away and rolled onto her back. She gazed at the ceiling. "He's really…cute."

"Well he's not Peter, or anything, but yeah, he's what some might call phenomenally hot. And he's totally flipped for you."

Jean's emerald irises glinted as she smiled at an invisible figure above. She levitated off the coverlet and glided to the mirror. "You'll text me if anything goes wrong?"

Xi'an's reflection joined Jean's in the glass. "That's what phones are for."

"I'll be back by eleven." Jean telekinetically auditioned several hairstyles.

"No problem." Xi'an finished arranging her disguise and observed Grey. "Um, maybe you should actually get ready and leave. It's 6:45."

Jean shook out a French twist and let her hair flow free. "I have to get dressed."

"Fast."

A simple, shell-pink silk dress on a hanger emerged from the closet and hovered before Xi'an's critical gaze. She nodded. Jean's tank top lifted from her torso; her pants slipped from her legs. The two items flew over to the dresser, folded themselves neatly and tucked into their designated drawers. The dress dropped onto Jean's body.

"Vintage?" Xi'an asked a light beige cardigan that presented itself. "So Jackie O."

"It belonged to my aunt."

"The whole outfit's more spring than fall, but I like it." Xi'an watched the sweater sleeve Jean's arms. "Elegant, authentic. Very you."

Jean bobbed slightly as she reviewed her selections. Then the bulky adamantium fiber vest jerked up from the corner and lumped itself onto her shoulders, sinking her to the floor.

"Now that does not work." Xi'an was resolute. "Leave it."

"Xi'an, it's bad enough I'm going. If the Professor knew, he'd freak. Plus, when I'm around Warren, or just thinking about him, I start levita…"

"Let's discuss this rationally," Xi'an cut in. "You are going out tonight with a guy who can fly. He's not going to let you float off into space, or whatever it is you're afraid of. You don't need that thing."

"Xi'an, I want you to be right. But I don't know…" Jean gripped the open sides of the jacket.

"I bet there's a tracer embedded in it somewhere. Let the vest stay here, while you go have fun for once in your life."

The heavy garment tumbled off Jean and smacked the floor.

* * *

The automatic lighting in the vast hanger area increased as the last shaft of twilight faded above the glass rooftop of the Worthington Tower. In little more than half an hour Warren would be meeting Jean – if she decided to show. His wings twitched as he remembered feeling her face touch his. He had just enough time to contact Varun. He had to know if the construction at Mount Verloren could be completed in one week instead of two. He stood by the wall of monitors and sent a request to Bonita Alvarez who was acting as site manager. Her image appeared on the screen.

The quality of the video feed was impressive. Warren noticed how much Bonita's smooth features contrasted with the coarse rock of the cavern. "We're all so relieved your father is going to be all right." Her expression was sunny despite the fact that she was speaking to him from the inside of a frozen mountain.

"He's a tough guy to get rid of." Warren didn't like the way the sentence came off. "I was hoping to speak with Varun. Is he around?"

"I'll get him for you, Mr. Worthington."

"Please, Bonita, don't call me Mr. Worthington. Warren is fine."

"Will do, Warren."

"And wait, don't grab Varun yet. There's something I want to ask you. Have you managed to keep the coordinates secret?"

A spotlight behind Alvarez illuminated a single, shining, adamantium reinforced steel wall. "As per your instructions, GPS disabled devices have been issued to all the workers – operating systems block all satellite tracking, all numbers, addresses, etcetera are untraceable, and, of course, everyone has signed a CDA." She paused. Angel assumed she was gauging his reaction. "Okay, I haven't been watching every single person every minute," she added. "But so far, I haven't come across any evidence anybody here even cares where we are. We've all been too busy."

"I want you to know that I'm not asking because I don't trust the team. I do, absolutely." Warren paced in a small circle, his soles tapping on the porcelain floor. "But each individual who knows the location raises the risk. There are certain people who can retrieve this kind of information without someone even being aware of it."

"Well, whoever tries won't get a whole lot poking into my head. Everything around here just looks like wilderness to me. If you want to know the truth, I think the cargo pilot's the only one who has any idea where this is."

"The pilot… He doesn't know who he's working for though, right?"

"She doesn't know. We chartered the plane under Lake George Enterprises Ltd – the Canadian company Josh set up."

"The pilot's a woman. Guess I forgot. What's her name again?"

"Madelyne Pryor. She's young, like eighteen I think, but she's a great pilot. She said she grew up on a freighter jet running supplies for oil pipelines in Alaska. Which is good because it was extremely scary flying in here. Thank god she warned us first. A few of the guys got sick anyway when she had to turn the plane upside-down." Bonita worried she'd kept her boss too long. "I'll find Varun."

Varun did not react well to Warren's request that the schedule be shortened. "Warren, this isn't the kind of project you can throw together. Everyone's working their butts off."

"Then cut corners. The interior doesn't have to be finished. I just need the entry defenses – the barriers installed…"

"We've got crews going around the clock as it is." Annoyance and fatigue grooved Varun's brow. "I'll clip the comforts as much as I can and we'll see where that leaves us, but at most it'll buy three or four days."

"Do it. The place has got to be ready as soon as possible."

* * *

Jean stood holding the center pole on the downtown 1 train. Two stops went by and no one bothered her. Her theory that most New York City residents were too busy dealing with their own problems to be interested in the lives of people they didn't know – even notorious mutants – was proving valid thus far. But at 96th Street, after most of the passengers got off, a group of four young men boarded the subway. Jean sensed their interest.

They crowded around her. "Hey, aren't you that crazy mutant chick who can read minds?" asked one.

She didn't answer and kept her back to him.

He pressed against her. "Guess what I'm thinking."

Jean's impulse was to throw the idiot and his imbecilic friends so hard they shattered their faces on the side of the car. But she chose a different response, one that couldn't as easily be exploited by the anti-mutant legions. Seizing her harassers' higher mental functions she reshaped their perceived reality. Then she slowly turned.

Instead of the skinny redhead, the four suddenly found themselves staring up at a six-foot seven, three hundred pound, seriously pissed-off-looking policeman. "I think you want me to crack your skull," came a low, rumbling voice. The officer's hands were big enough to smash several heads at once. "Maybe all of you punks want a nice trip to Riker's." He patted his holstered service weapon.

"I… I'm real sorry… I was uh… messed up." The former aggressor stammered while backing away.

The cop advanced. "You kids doing drugs?"

"No… No way… No drugs, sir…" came a chorus from the group.

"I'm giving you boys some advice." The doors opened at 86th Street. "Get out of my sight." The young men fled.

* * *

Jean exited the train at West 72nd Street. Her dress fluttered above her knees as she sprang up the station stairs to the sidewalk. She delighted in the whirl of the evening metropolis. The towering walls of glass, steel, concrete, and limestone were scarcely able to contain the brimming tide of taxis, trucks and rushing pedestrians. There was so much life everywhere. She checked her phone. The time read 7:20. _I__ should __hurry._

The moment she stepped off the curb to cross Amsterdam Avenue cold liquid seeped into her shoes. The unusually frequent autumn snowfall had flooded the street corners with slush. Jean instinctively rose inches off the ground and glided over the lake-sized pool to the middle of the intersection. Glancing left and right, she didn't catch anyone's eye. Satisfied she hadn't attracted any attention, she broke into a brisk gait. She dashed past Columbus Avenue and moments later entered Central Park.

Snow flurries twinkled in the orangey glow of the Art Nouveau streetlamps defining the path she followed through the woods. Further in, the density of the trees and the absence of other people almost convinced her she was on a solitary stroll in a fantasy wilderness. The forest canopy blocked the light from the buildings and muffled the traffic noise making the bustle of the great avenues seem like a distant world.

Up ahead the signature lanterns of the world famous Tavern on the Green poked through the branches. She'd gone the wrong way. The Bethesda Fountain was north of 72nd Street and she'd traveled south. Her phone told her she only had five minutes left. _Terrific,_ she thought, _I__'__m__ going__ to__ be __late._ She consulted a map using the device's display, but none of the curvy, circuitous lanes and trails led straight to the Fountain. _This__ place__ was__ designed __to__ get __you __lost. __It__'__d __be __so __much __easier__ if __I__ could__ see __where __I__ was __going__…_

Charles' words spilled from her memory. _Keep__ your __feet __and __your __thoughts __on __Earth._

_I __won__'__t __go __far,_ she promised herself. She checked to make certain she was alone and secured her small evening bag around her wrist. Then she lifted into the air. Clearing the treetops she searched for the Angel of the Waters. The statue, with its bronze wings limned by the gold-tinted lights of the Bethesda Terrace, was easy to locate. Using the cover of the trees she flew towards it. The sensation of the wind combing through her hair as she skimmed the highest boughs was delicious. _Don__'__t__ get __carried __away. __Stay __in __control._

She descended into the shadows by the lake bank and peered at the Fountain. There were a few visitors – a lounging couple and a crew of teenage tourists in the thrall of a photo-snapping frenzy – yet nobody paid her any particular notice when she emerged.

The eight-foot tall sculpture of the female divinity captured her gaze. Jean envisioned the Angel Bethesda commanding the winds with her great sturdy wings. The stern guardian was so different from Warren. He didn't demand nature bend to his will; he moved with the air currents, in harmony with the motion of the atmosphere.

_He__'__ll__ be __here __soon._ Her pulse was thumping. She took advantage of the illumination by an isolated lamppost and grabbed her compact from her purse for one last check. Looking at her own mouth made her picture his. What would happen if he kissed her? Or what if she kissed him? In the make-up mirror her eyes lit with thousands of tiny stars. Her soles left faint prints on the snow-dusted bricks of the Terrace.

Grey bit her lip while she rose helplessly. _How __can __I __take __a __chance __like __this? __What __am__ I __doing?__ Why __did __I__ listen __to __Xi__'__an?_ A minute or two remained. She would leave before he arrived. She ripped Angel from her thoughts and forced her feet to the ground.

Then she heard a swooping sound. An arctic gust prickled her skin. Warren landed in front of her. He folded in his appendages gracefully as his shoes crunched the icy pavement. His suit was cut so precisely to his physique it was hard for Grey not to imagine what he looked like without it.

"Jean…" His voice carried a barely discernable quiver.

"Hi." Jean affected a casual tone. Warren stepped closer. The scent of soap and something else she could only describe as winter sky wafted to her nose.

"You look beautiful," he said. A smile revealed his teeth. "No vest tonight."

"I wasn't sure I needed it. I guess we better start walking." She turned west. "We don't want to miss anything."

Warren reached for her hand as his spreading wings began lifting him, "Do we have to walk, Jean?"

They had already attracted a crowd. The teens Grey had spotted earlier presently surrounded them, clicking shot after shot. Groups of people popped from every direction. Walking was obviously not an option. Jean's heels sailed upwards from a sea of gasps and camera flashes as she let Angel sweep her aloft.

The speed of their ascent was dizzying. In less than a minute they were three hundred meters above the ziggurat peaks of the apartment towers of Central Park West. Jean gripped Warren's fingers as they soared. The kinetic thrill of flight was shrinking her desire to return to Earth into nonexistence. "I thought you were taking me to the ballet," she called through the wind.

"We're here." He pointed below. They were directly over Lincoln Center. "Do you want to drop or dive?"

"Dive. I'm wearing a dress."

They arched synchronously. Layers of swirling snowflakes tore past while they shot towards the glittering glass facade of the Metropolitan Opera House. Angel led Jean into an upright curve as they circled down to a large balcony jutting from the top story. He alighted first and offered her his other hand. Grey clasped his palms firmly yet still hovered a foot off the travertine floor. Snow crystals spiraled skyward around her, flashing like diamonds as they orbited her floating tresses.

"We don't have to go in." Angel's wings resumed a flight-ready, extended position. "I mean, if you'd rather…"

"No." Jean focused on the surface beneath and gradually lowered. "I haven't seen a ballet since I was six, and it was only my sister's dance troupe performing at some community theater." Grey let go of him and attempted to calm her wild locks.

"Your hair looks perfect, to me."

"What? Flying all over the place?"

Warren took a strand between his fingers. "There's nothing wrong with flying." The tendril escaped his grasp and tucked behind her ear. "Um, would you like a glass of champagne?" He gestured to a waiter who'd been standing by the doors to the interior. The man timorously approached bearing a tray with a bottle and two flutes. Jean could see the guy was shivering – either from fear or the cold or a mixture of the two. Warren noticed as well and indicated a nearby table. "You can leave it there." The man set down the tray and hurried inside.

"What is this? Your private landing pad?" asked Jean.

"Well, my family are supporters. My grandfather actually put together the original financing, so you know…" Warren moved to the champagne service. He poured the bubbly fluid into a glass and watched the foam overflow, spilling over the edge. He had newfound respect for Candy. _How__ did __she __do __this?_ He recalled the tilt of her wrist as she tipped each flute to receive the wine. After a second and third try he produced two full glasses. "Here." He passed one to Grey.

She examined its contents. "Do you drink a lot?"

"No… I just thought… Don't you like champagne?"

"Maybe…" She sipped. "Does taste nice." It felt like sparks were trickling down her throat. She turned and walked to the bronze rail bordering the view of the illuminated fountains of Lincoln Square. Looking out at the plaza, she spied a young couple hurrying to enter the Opera House. She tapped into their consciousnesses, sensing the pair's excitement as the young man thumbed through his wallet for their tickets and the girl marveled at the glorious starburst chandeliers in the lobby. The lights dimmed briefly, announcing the imminent start of the performance. Jean felt Warren's touch on her shoulder. "Should we go in?" she asked.

"In a moment. We can wait until the orchestra begins. The lights will be out then…"

"Let's go in now. I want to read the program."

Warren escorted Jean off the balcony. A jittery usher gave them programs and held open the door to the Worthingtons' private box in the center of the exclusive Upper Tier.

Jean gaped at the stylized crystal explosions extending from the gilded ceiling. "Wow. The chandeliers look like star clusters." She settled into her seat.

"That's probably what they're supposed to be. When this place was built in the sixties everyone was obsessed with outer space." Warren retracted his wings as much as he could and strove to hide the minor discomfort he suffered sitting in a chair with a backboard.

Jean hadn't quite finished reading the description of the first act when the stellar light fixtures receded into darkness and the musical overture commenced. The curtain parted, unveiling an idyllic Rhineland village.

The ballet was not the inscrutable ritualistic pageant she'd expected. The dramatic artistry of the dancers was stunning. Every single player portrayed a unique character, using gestures and movements that were as eloquent as spoken language. Grey understood the gamekeeper Hilarion's yearning for Giselle simply from the way the performer dreamily withdrew from listening at the door to her cottage.

_This__ is __wonderful_. She was enjoying the show far more than she'd anticipated. Then the nobleman Albrecht bounded across the boards. Jean was instantly entranced. His high jumps, blond coloring and privileged bearing caused her to associate him with Angel. She even saw some of Warren's defiance mirrored in Albrecht's hasty dismissal of his squire – the servant had objected when Albrecht hid his sword so he could fool around in the guise of a peasant. Further connections fused as she observed the red-haired ballerina Rachel Dunbar in the role of the naïve village girl Giselle. The inexperienced Giselle immediately fell for the young duke's charms and shunned the affections of Hilarion, her longtime suitor.

Scene after scene increased Grey's impression that the patterns of her own life had somehow become interwoven with the drama on the stage. The cutting edge of Albrecht's false promises of undying love slashed at Jean's heart. The duke was not only concealing his true identity from the innocent maiden, but also his impending marriage to a local princess. Was Warren capable of dazzling her with shiny lies?

As Albrecht and Giselle matched each other's steps and leapt and twirled together, they reminded Jean of birds in courtship. Except with birds the act would be sincere. Was Warren being sincere? What sort of dance were they doing? Was she merely a dalliance, a temporary infatuation he would ultimately discard in favor of a serious relationship with Candy Southern or some other debutante? She sensed Candy's presence. Southern was the one who belonged next to him in the family box at the premiere, not an unstable mutant who was starting to doubt she belonged anywhere on Earth.

Crinkly questions continued to distract her. What if Warren saw her as some kind of crazy conquest? Why shouldn't a billionaire's son roll for high-stakes? _That __can__'__t __be __it__…_ The need to know became intense and the slightest effort would yield the answers. Clearing the thin film that obscured his mind from her psychic sight was like blowing dust off a lens. She felt him visually tracing the side of her face. _Don__'__t__ look__ back,_ she told herself as she dissolved the gauzy barrier. She had to avoid meeting his stare.

Psychic feedback surged through her brain. She clenched the armrests of her chair. The prism of her psyche refracted his thoughts; countless reflections flared through her cerebral cortex, expanding the spectrum of her own conscious desires to magnificent proportions. _So __powerful, __so __beautiful__… _If she looked into his eyes now she might disassemble every molecule of Lincoln Center just to get his clothes off. _I __have __to __stop __this! __Block__ it! _she yelled silently while trying to restore the boundaries between them. _Focus__ on__ the__ stage__…_

Giselle was going insane. She flung her unkempt scarlet hair as her rage and anguish at learning of Albrecht's deception consumed her. Torment tossed her body from one side of the proscenium to the other. There was only one way to stop it. She grabbed Albrecht's sword and plunged it into her chest.

The house lights came on. Act one had ended. Jean sprang to her feet and applauded. She turned to Warren. "She's dead, isn't she?" Grey hoped he couldn't detect how much she was struggling to contain her emotions.

"Giselle? Yeah. She's dead." Warren got up.

"Albrecht killed her."

"He's a stupid jerk." Angel inched nearer. "Are you uh, having a good time?"

"Oh, the ballet is amazing. I had no idea it would be so…" Jean sensed herself rising. She pushed against the ceiling of the box. "…affecting."

"There's an intermission. Want to go outside?" he offered, holding out his arm.

Jean clung to him. "Love to." Invisible energy radiated from her hold on his sleeve; it made him feel lit up inside and spread his appendages. His feathers brushed the jambs of the doorway as he led her into the corridor.

* * *

"Hi Warren." Candy Southern, wearing a strapless sapphire blue dress, was standing in the hallway next to a modish, slightly older man. "Such a nice surprise to run into you here. I thought you didn't go for ballet." There was a bitter snap to her words. "We've met before," she said to Jean. "I'm Candy Southern."

"Hi." Jean stretched her toes to reach the floor and grasped Warren more firmly.

"This is Marc Horsten, the fabulous photographer." Candy turned to her companion. "Marc, meet Jean Grey and my old friend Warren Worthington the Third." Candy's gaze hung on Angel. "How are you, Warren?"

"I'm okay." Warren couldn't move forward to the balcony without walking into them.

Horsten broke from Candy and approached Jean. "How do you do that with your hair?"

"You don't want to know," replied Jean coldly.

Horsten was deaf to her far from welcoming tone. "Yes I do. I want to know everything." The photographer's pupils raced up and down Grey's lithe figure.

"Is it a family heirloom, your cardigan?" Southern asked Jean, betraying more than a hint of contempt. "Better yet, a steal at Goodwill?" Jean said nothing.

"I've gotta brilliant concept!" Marc's sight panned over to Warren. "I want you both." Angel had to restrain himself from hitting the guy. "Get this," Horsten elaborated, "I'm shooting New York Magazine's spring fashion issue and the two of you modeling the clothes would be mind-blowing." He glanced at Angel's wings. "Obviously we'd have to make some adjustments…" Jean and Warren exchanged looks of exasperation. Marc Horsten was undeterred. "Think about it. This is civil rights stuff. I mean it. Change the world shit."

"No need to decide right this minute." Candy stared daggers at Marc and then slung a grin at Angel. "Want to join us for champagne?"

"Thanks, but we're taken care of," answered Warren.

"Oh, of course." Candy raised her chin. "You probably have drinks set up outside. I wonder where you got that idea." Candy grabbed Horsten. "Well, Marc and I are going to the Light Box afterwards. Fiona's hosting another one of her legendary events. You two must come. You'll have a terrific time." Her cheeks dimpled with her widest smile yet. "Change the world shit."

* * *

Jean released his arm and sailed to the edge of the balcony. Warren was only a beat or two behind. Jean didn't turn around, choosing instead to seek out the rooftops of Broadway beyond the plaza.

"Candy…her emotions… They were so strong. I couldn't shield myself." Grey's knuckles whitened as she clenched the metal railing. "She hates me so much. I don't understand how she was able to talk to me. And she put on those fake smiles and acted all sickeningly gracious."

"I should've realized she would be here. I'm sorry she upset you." Warren grazed Jean's shoulders with the tips of his fingers.

"The thing is, she doesn't care a bit about me. I'd be nothing but a news story to her, if it wasn't for you." Jean rotated. Hovering half a foot off the stone floor she met his gaze at eye-level. "Candy is in love with you."

"I'm not in love with her." He wanted to dig into Jean's hair and bring her face to his lips.

"What if I wasn't here? Maybe you would be in love with her. Maybe you and Candy are supposed to be together."

He clutched her elbow. "But you are here." He sensed her skin getting warmer through the cashmere wool of her sweater. "And you're the only one I've ever been in love wi…"

"Don't! You don't know what I am. Warren, I'm like that anomaly out in space, Object 13. I shouldn't exist."

"But you do, Jean." His feathers rustled in the gathering breeze. "You're here, you're real. What I feel for you is real. It's the only thing that is real to me. Don't ask me to give it up."

"Warren…" Tiny sparks flickered in her irises.

"Because I won't. Not for Candy. Not for Xavier. Not for my father…" He felt her energy again, waves of it, rippling out from his grip on her arm. "Not even for you, Jean. I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want. But I won't stop being in love with you. It means everything to me. Just look if you don't believe me. Read my mind."

"I… I did… During the performance." Her eyes darted to the floor. They both heard the chimes signaling the end of intermission. The second act was about to begin.

"What did you see?" He caressed the line of her jaw.

She looked at him, the sparks in her stare shining brighter. "I think we should go back inside."

* * *

Act two was exquisite torture. He was so close to Jean he could smell her shampoo – notes of honeysuckle and jasmine generated fantasies of her naked body bathed in sunshine. He couldn't stop thinking about touching her and kissing her. Vibrations pulsed from every imagined point of contact. He had to calm down. Perhaps paying more attention to the ballet would help.

Giselle had risen from her grave and glided from one side of the stage to the other as a spirit of the night, perpetually slipping from Albrecht's grasp. Every time the male performer tried to embrace his lost beloved he failed to catch her. Then she sailed into his arms only to rise high over his head. The ballerina appeared to be hanging in the air. _Can __all __pretty __redheads __levitate?_ Angel laughed at the idea. His vision combed the dancer's suspended form and rested where her hips met the hands of the man playing Albrecht. The dancers faded from Warren's mind, replaced by dreams of his own hands stroking Jean's slim thighs.

The shimmering energy resurged, swelling inside his chest. It hurt; but it was wonderful, and every second it became more intense. The expanding force was pulling him up out of his chair. Was his rib cage about to burst? His wings were opening. He turned to look at Jean. She was floating above her seat, staring right at him. Her eyes glittered as her hair brushed the top of the compartment. He reached for her and drew her into his arms. The ballet was finished. The house lights came up.

Grey freed herself from his hold. Her back bumped the ceiling of the box. The door to the hallway swung wide and she flew out, purse in tow. Warren, sweating and incapable of restraining his broadening wingspan, busted through the doorway after her.

* * *

Fitting through the exit to the balcony was a challenge. It slowed him down and every second was precious. Had she left? He searched frantically.

She was twenty feet above. Beams from the Midtown skyscrapers accentuated the sylphlike quality of her silhouette. In a blink he was with her.

"I had to get out of there," she said, her voice flanged by the wind.

"I understand." The heat surrounding her filled his wings. They rose together gradually.

"Warren, thank you. It's been wonderful. The best night ever, really…" The glints in her gaze flashed. "But I should go."

She made no motion to leave. Seconds passed. They bobbed up and down, speechless, with hardly two feet between them. Warren dispelled the quiet. "Jean, just see one more thing before you go home."

"What?"

His mouth curved mischievously. "See if you can catch me." He flipped backwards and was gone in a blur.

_You__'__ve__ got __to __be__ crazy! _she shouted, without making a sound. She pitched downward to pursue him but saw no trace. Holding steady, she scanned Lincoln Square. Where did he go? He must have reversed direction suddenly. Had he flown east or west? Uptown or downtown? The east beckoned and she soon glimpsed a white speck skimming the gothic gables of the Iroquois Hotel on 59th Street half a kilometer away. Jean coiled the strap of her bag around her arm and zeroed in on Angel.

She cherished the bite of the windshear on her skin as Broadway and the southwest corner of Central Park flitted by below. The nearer she came to the roof of the Iroquois the harder it was to see. The sword-like finials crowning its peaks were ensconced in snowy halos. Had she lost him again?

_He__'__s__ not__ too__ far__…_ Warren was sailing up the concave vertical slope of a colossal glass monolith three blocks east on Sixth Avenue. She guessed the onyx building was three hundred meters tall. Angel was evidently relishing the lift produced by the radically steep incline. _That __looks __like __fun._ She soared after him.

The vortices sweeping the sides of the huge dark tower hurled her skyward. Her neurons fired with pure exhilaration – a sensation she had not experienced for a very long time. Thousands of feet above the traffic of Manhattan, she halted her ascent. The stars and moon had punched through the woolly gray clouds. The sublime beauty of the unveiled heavens was transfixing. Billions of oscillating frequencies sang from every sector. _How__ far__ could __I__ go?_ There was music and drama out there greater than the work of any human composer.

"You're not giving up, are you?" It was Warren, circling her, yelling over the wind.

Was there anything like him in the worlds beyond? Grey doubted it. She responded psychically. _Not __unless __you __make __it __too __easy._

Warren quickly became a distant dash. Jean looped around and plunged towards the glimmering urban streets. Tonight they held more fascination for her than all the suns in the cosmos. Following Angel as he rode the winds south, she glimpsed red and white ribbons of auto lights flowing along Park Avenue.

Air currents carried the laughter of the two flying mutants as they skirted the gold-tiled pyramidal temple atop the Atlantic Insurance Building on Madison Park. Jean was only a second from his heels but couldn't resist slowing to a stationary hover to admire his winged shape as he momentarily eclipsed the numbers eight through ten and two through four on the clock face of the Metropolitan Life Tower. Where was he leading her?

Washington Square Park and the constant traffic jam known as Canal Street whipped by. Jean suspected Warren was going to the harbor. In moments she watched him pass the Battery heading for the islands and the port of Elizabeth. Was he taking her to New Jersey?

Jean accelerated. A rush of power fueled her flight over the dark waters of New York Harbor. Hulking container ships and strobing party boats, Governors and Ellis Island rapidly disappeared from view. Warren dropped out of sight beyond the Statue of Liberty. In less than three seconds Jean rounded the torch. She searched the vast open bay but saw no sign of him. Past the Statue the nearest structure was a mile away. _He __can__'__t __fly __that __fast._ Then she sensed him, behind her.

"You caught me," he said, his wings brushing the bronze surface of the flame. He drifted closer.

The wind wove wide arcs in her hair; the sparks in her irises grew into brilliant whirls of fire. "You don't know what you're doing."

"What we're doing, Jean." He embraced her.

She closed her eyes. Her chest compressed while she exhaled. _Warren,__ stop __me..._

_Don't __stop, __Jean,_ he said with his thoughts as their lips touched.

* * *

A fierce gust blowing from the east cycled up the Statue. Warren's wings captured the swirling current, thrusting him and Jean higher. Their mouths remained locked as rays of rapture suffused their senses. Their bodies crushed together, twisting in mid-air.

Jean began to emit a fiery glow. Shimmering particles streamed from her aura. They made Angel's skin pulse and sent tremors through his wings. _God__… __Jean__…_ An insatiable hunger for her seized his brain as her energy engulfed him.

_Let's go…_

They said it simultaneously. They both knew where they were going – the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street. It seemed to Warren they traveled there instantly. For the first time he didn't acknowledge his four steely sisters upon returning to the rooftop of the Worthington Tower. But he was barely aware they or practically anything else existed. Jean filled his consciousness.

The portal to the hanger opened. Wrapped in Jean's telekinetic energy they descended to the halfway point of the cavernous space. Fifty feet overhead the glass closed; then the leaves of adamantium reinforced steel contracted with a snap, followed by a swiftly deployed layer of cushioned synthetic silk. Fifty feet beneath them the crimson-haired angel, illuminated by the interior of Warren's office, smiled from her crystal plane.

There was no need to activate the hanger's lighting system. Jean's corona shone bright as day. Warren fumbled with the buttons on her sweater and marveled as his fingers detected them detaching on their own. Reaching around to unzip the back of her dress, he felt silken threads clouding his wrists. His cufflinks unfastened and his tie unknotted and slipped from his collar. In the time it took him to breathe in and out, Jean's shell-pink frock and his entire painstakingly constructed outfit had been reduced to wafting clumps of strings. Even his Italian leather shoes and her tan pumps had peeled off in strips.

They feverishly explored each other's nakedness as the desire to unite consumed them. Jean pulled away from his lips. Warren held her stare, his blue eyes lit by her blazing face.

_Warren, I'm changing… becoming something else… _

"I love you, Jean."

_Wings… I can feel them tearing through my skin!_

"I feel them too. They're beautiful."

Wings of light spread from her back. Her brilliance spiked. _If__ we__ do__ this,__ you__ may __die__…_

"Kill me."

His hands burned as he pulled on her hips. But he didn't care. His feathers crackled from the heat as he beat his appendages and pushed his pelvis towards hers.

The joining made them scream. Jean's cry carried on after his died out. Rising in pitch and expanding in amplitude, it transformed into the shriek of a bird of prey. The sound reverberated through Warren's skeleton, making his bones shudder.

Angel felt every cell within him exploding. Jean's fire was searing his flesh. He tried to grasp what was happening but he couldn't see. Grey's body flared with cosmic flame; her blinding wings grew enormous, spanning the vast breadth of the hanger.

The last shreds of Warren's consciousness cried out:

_Jean… What are you…? Jean!_

A booming voice rang from everywhere. Protons, neutrons and electrons, the fabric of the universe, resonated with its power.

_Not… Jean… I… am… PHOENIX!_


	39. Life and Death

**_April 5, 2012 A/N: Thanks so much to all the readers who have left reviews! Your support has made this story possible. To all future readers and those returning who have not yet spoken, no matter how long it has been since the most recent update, if you are enjoying this story please leave a comment. Even just a word or two will be greatly appreciated. Reviews mean the world to me and motivate me to write. So, if you like what you are reading and wish to read more, say something. :) The next chapter is in the works and will be posted soon. :) _**

**_Cheers! _**

******_Claremonty_**

* * *

**Chapter 38 – Life and Death**

Circulating winds held Ororo Munroe three hundred and fifty feet above Morningside Drive. Her dark cape, molded by the air funnel, curved into an undulating wall to her right. Melting snowflakes glistened on her skin, giving her still visage a metallic luster as her glowing white eyes searched Jean's dorm room on the thirtieth floor. The lack of activity inside aroused her suspicions. From what she could discern through the thin curtains, Jean had washed up, pulled on her weighted vest over a t-shirt and shorts, turned off the lights, slipped into bed, and promptly fallen asleep. None of these actions would have caused the Windrider the slightest concern if she were observing any one of the other college students residing in Hamilton Hall. But it was only four minutes past ten and Jean Grey did not tire easily.

Ororo knew the hour to the minute without having to consult a device. The powers that linked her to the Earth's magnetic field and the great atmospheric currents stirred by the phases of the Moon and the energy of the Sun told her exactly where she was in terrestrial space and time. This precise awareness of her position was one of the crucial factors that enabled her to maintain her equilibrium and thus prevented the tumult of forces unleashed by her mutant abilities from spinning out of control.

Yet this moment, knowing where she was failed to provide security or confidence or comfort, because Ororo had no idea where she and the X-Men were going. The moral leadership of Charles Xavier – the foundation she had built her life upon – was wavering. The Windrider hadn't felt so unfixed since the days long ago when Charles first took her in off the streets of Cairo and saved her from self-destruction.

Jean's respiration sequence altered. Was she truly resting? The knowledge that this child – the one they were most proud of – was the cause of the Professor's disintegration began slicing Ororo inside. She had always cherished her deep affinity with Jean. She had loved her like a little sister or a niece, sometimes like a daughter. When she witnessed Grey struggling to contain her blazing psychic energy, Storm saw her unbalanced younger self fighting to rein in spontaneous cyclones and flashing anvil clouds.

But tonight was different. Her heartstrings did not hum sympathetically as she looked down at the young telekinetic sleeping below. The once constant chorus of shared life-altering, death-defying experiences was mute. Ororo was spying on a stranger instead of watching over a dear friend. Jean's recent behavior was unrecognizable. _She burned him! How dare she stop taking M56! _Could Grey actually believe her judgment was more sound than Charles Xavier's, the man who had successfully controlled and contained his own frightening abilities for decades?

And the girl's continued contact with Worthington, despite Charles' objections, was disgraceful. Storm knew Angel had been flying around Hamilton Hall the previous night. She identified his displacement pattern in the air currents when she returned from the mansion, which led her to attribute her sudden need to check on her plants to Jean's manipulation. The two of them had played with her like bratty children.

Who did Angel think he was not heeding her warning? Even if he recklessly assumed her threat was pure bluff, didn't he realize the proper thing to do was to leave Jean alone until she was stable and in control again? How could he add fuel to the fire consuming her? Why churn up the airspace outside her dormitory hours after the girl had torched the horizon? It was his sense of entitlement, obviously. He was in his rights to do as he pleased, fly wherever he wished – the consequences be damned. _Just like a rich boy. He thinks because he has wings he owns the skies._

Jean turned under the sheets. Perhaps Warren couldn't stay away. He was clearly mad for her. So was Scott, who seemed at his wits end. Logan appeared severely afflicted as well – a development that disturbed the Windrider as profoundly, if not more, than the Professor's deteriorating condition. She, Charles and Hank had agreed unanimously to exclude Wolverine from their meetings to discuss ultimate options for dealing with Jean; they weren't certain they could trust him.

Ororo's breathing hastened. Logan's iron hold on her arm emerged from her thoughts, as did the words that had accompanied it, "But you could make me forget… What do you say, 'Ro?" The invitation had shocked her. That night in Sal's waterfront bar there had been a sheen to his stare.

Grey was driving all of them insane. Charles' anxious mood had dipped into despair frequently throughout the day. It had taken all Ororo's strength not to cry out that afternoon when she saw his face contract with horror at the amateur video of Jean destroying the Reaper Sentinels. Each second of the footage deepened the creases in his brow. Afterwards, during their council with Hank, Charles was uncharacteristically hurried and scatterbrained. Periodically he dropped away from them and grabbed the dome of his skull in pain. He said the headaches were excruciating but refused any relief, rejecting Moira's formulas, even an aspirin. "I must keep my mind clear!" he'd exclaimed.

Everyone at the Institute perceived the ground shifting. _Why is she trying to destroy us?_ The answer came instantly to Storm. Jean was in love with power and the Professor's restraints chafed. Ororo understood. She too was familiar with the temptation to push against Xavier's boundaries. Much like Jean, the Windrider had to consciously resist being overtaken by the forces within her every time she rose free from the ground, or darkened the horizon with sheets of rain, or lit the sky with bolts of electricity channeled through her limbs. It was the vision Charles had shown her of what might result if she gave into that passion that kept her in check. The scenes she glimpsed had sucked the air from her lungs – hundreds, thousands of innocents torn apart, drowning, crushed. She would never allow that to happen, never break the limits he had set.

He must have revealed a greater horror to Jean. Storm shuddered imagining the degree of devastation Jean was likely capable of. How could she let her desire to stretch her fiery wings devour her soul? Maybe the Jean Grey she'd helped guide and nurture was long gone. There was a monster in her place, a fledgling firebird preparing to soar, toying with their minds, punishing them for caring for her. Soon nothing but the stars would matter to Jean and she'd seek to cast off her human imperfections and attachments. Her ties to the X-Men, Charles, her parents, love-struck Angel, and the Earth itself would dwindle to irritating cobwebs pulling at her ankles. If she so casually defied the Professor, a trifle might cause her to incinerate the world.

Ororo could do something that very moment that would prevent the nightmare from coming to pass; though it required she commit the most serious of transgressions. She could stop Jean now, before her transformation into a creature no one could subdue was complete. One good strike would carbonize her. Storm's braids fanned out as polarizing ions charged the air. Spurs of lightning spiked between the knuckles of her fists. The second she uncurled her fingers Jean Grey would become a smoldering memory.

_No! I can't hurt her! _A howling gale propelled the Windrider far into the sky. Shooting upwards, she streaked the clouds above the Upper West Side with searing discharges of electricity. _What did I almost do?_ she cried as she climbed into the clearer, colder atmosphere. Oblivious to the freezing temperature, she sailed north. Safely beyond contact with Jean and the rest of the populace, she activated the micro communicator near the shoulder of her suit and called Xavier. "Charles, I'm finished for the night. Jean is asleep."

"I see," he responded. Storm strained to hear his weak signal through the friction generated by her speed. "Was she alone all evening?" he asked.

"Yes. She studied by herself for two hours, approximately." Ororo raised her volume in case Charles was having similar difficulties.

"When did she go to bed?" Their connection strengthened, raising the level of his voice.

"Fifteen minutes ago. I believe she was genuinely tired."

"Any sign of Angel?"

"No."

"I'm relieved." Xavier's manner became noticeably calmer.

"So am I." Ororo wondered if she'd misread the severity of the situation; perhaps humanity was not on the brink of annihilation. "Please tell Scott she's sleeping peacefully. He wanted to be informed."

"I will."

"You sound better, Charles. Have the headaches eased?" Swirling puffs of snowflakes speckled the gleaming traffic streams snaking through the gray void of slush-covered Van Cortlandt Park below. "Did you get some rest?"

"I did catch a nap, and Hank has been pushing this chamomile tea on me. I feel quite relaxed. Are you returning?"

"I am." She flew faster. The air sweeping across her body whistled. "But I need some time." Ororo redirected her course eastward towards the vast open sea. "I'll be a little while."

* * *

Storm was gone. Xi'an sat up in Jean's bed and pushed off the covers. After loosening the straps, she unzipped the adamantium fiber vest and exhaled in relief as it slid off. Without turning on the lights, she walked to the mirror and removed the red wig. Then she stared at her dim reflection until the shallow depressions of her eye sockets and the planes defined by her cheekbones blurred into abstract shapes. The shadowed parts slowly reformed into a face not her own. She looked upon her mentor, Jason Nikos, alias Peter Wyngarde, alias Mastermind, alias so many names he couldn't possibly recall one in ten himself.

_Kapetánios…_

Jason Nikos' physical self was seated across from Emma Frost at the shiny, oval-shaped table in the ebony-paneled secret chamber of the Inner Circle of the Hellfire Club. This evening his appearance was similar to the young student Peter Wyngarde, the same light gray eyes, but with a more pronounced musculature and closer in age to his actual fifty-five years.

He slowly put down the crystal goblet of wine he'd been on the verge of sipping as his pupils dilated. Emma immediately recognized the signs of psychic communication. She called to Shaw, Harry Leland and Donald Pierce who were gathered by the stone hearth on the other side of the chamber. "News from the front. Karma is reporting." Emma returned her full attention to Jason and received his outstretched hands.

The three others moved to the table. Shaw sat down at the head and studied the two psychics – Nikos on his left, Frost on his right, both sharing the same faraway gaze. "The Phoenix may have arrived, gentlemen." Shaw placed his empty goblet on the table. "Harry, bring back the wine. Let's hope this merits a drink."

Mastermind acknowledged Xi'an. _Emma and I are with you, poulári._

_The Windrider has departed. She was easily deceived. Her emotional state is veering towards the extreme. I thought she was going to kill me._

_What are you getting from Jean?_

_She hasn't contacted me. But I'm sensing the firebird growing within her… She can't contain it much longer. You were right about Worthington._ _The fire between them… _ Xi'an's delivery became rushed. _It's intensifying. I can feel it burning up the barriers in her mind, like flash paper. If no one stops them, the Phoenix will fly free tonight. _

Emma and Jason pulled their hands back. The size of their pupils decreased. Shaw noticed the excitement simmering behind Frost's mask of cool. "The X-Men are fraying at the seams," she announced, "and the Phoenix is rising."

Donald Pierce stood by Nikos' chair. "Emma, Jason, I realize you telepaths have wanted to keep the details to yourselves on this. I get the reasons for that. It often seems like our club is hosting a psychic convention, with all the mind readers that turn up here. I hear the Braddock girl went undetected for weeks and she had rooms on this very floor." He flexed his shoulders. "But it's time you two dropped some of the secrecy. I have a question which I need a good answer for. What are we going to do with the all-powerful Phoenix?" He stared down at Jason, tucking in his long, angular chin. "Trust you to control her? Using your two-bit illusions?"

"Jean Grey controls the Phoenix, as much as the Phoenix wishes to be controlled." Nikos got up and surprised six-foot two Pierce by towering over him. "We, the Inner Circle, will guide her. We will show her how she can change the world. Reveal her destiny." The eighteenth century portrait of Juliana Grey loomed above. Her free-flowing red hair blazed like live flames.

The flesh around Pierce's eyes crinkled. He could not abide having to crane his neck to speak to a man whose real height was less than five-foot four. "Listen, Jason, or whatever your name is, I'm not fooled by your tricks." Spasms rippled Pierce's sleeves; his upper arms bulged. "And you're cracked if you think you can fool a super-charged psi who flicks Reaper Sentinels out of existence like she was popping soap bubbles." He checked Shaw and Leland's reactions. "Sebastian, Harry, how can you buy this? You really think the Phoenix is going to pick this inflated carnival freak and his little refugee over Charles Xavier?"

"Jean has left Xavier already, Donald. You were there Friday night. She was dying to get away from him." There was an intimate gloss to Emma's tone. "Jean didn't hesitate for a minute when I offered her an escape. She's out with young Worthington right now, flagrantly disrespecting her Professor's wishes…"

"Let's talk about young Worthington," Pierce cut in. "He ruffled a lot of feathers yesterday. I played squash with Guy Spear this morning and he told me the battle in the boardroom started before the mutant terrorists broke in. The son disapproves of daddy's business with the MRD. Spear thinks the boy set up the whole thing. Didn't you tell me, Emma, you saw him talking to one of the perps, goes by 'Domino', at the party? The Angel might not appreciate being told what to do."

"I read him." Emma's demeanor switched to a serious mode. "He has no psychic defenses. It will not be a challenge to make it clear to him that if he wants to be with Jean, he'll have to run with us." Emma's gaze panned to engage Shaw and Leland as well. "Because when things get rough Jean goes to her real friends. When she started losing control Friday night, who did she grab onto? Not Warren, not Xavier," Emma gestured at Jason, "she reached for her true friend, Peter Wyngarde."

"Come on, Emma! Do you have to use words like 'real' and 'true'? Peter Wyngarde is an illusion!" snapped Pierce, jutting forward his sharp jaw.

"Mr. Pierce, I think you would benefit from a reevaluation of the term 'illusion'." Nikos' suggestion elicited a scornful glare from Pierce. "Consciousness is an illusion." As he spoke, the telepath captured his opponent's total focus. "In your mind, whatever you perceive as real is real. You could find yourself anywhere, anytime, feeling anything…"

In a flash Donald Pierce was standing in the last place on Earth he ever wanted to be, at the worst time of his life; and instead of Jason Nikos, he was staring at the thing he feared most.

Her cheek bled where his class ring had ripped her skin. "Please! Please let me go! I won't tell anyone you hurt me… I promise…" Her squeaky voice was punctuated by sobs.

The last thirty-two years of his life had evaporated. He was back at college, New Haven, Connecticut, in his quarters within the imposing mid-nineteenth century edifice he and his society brethren referred to as 'the Tomb'.

"Shut up and stop squealing! It's my birthday you stupid slut!" he heard himself shout.

"I didn't know… I didn't know what you wanted… I just thought… you wanted to have fun…" Her tears were smearing her cheap make-up. He watched tiny rivers of black and blue drain into the red-purple slash along the side of her face. How could she cry so much?

Calculations clicked in his head. He didn't really want her anymore. In fact, he hadn't wanted her a whole lot to begin with. He'd wanted Felicia Symes, but she was still mad at him for calling her a bitch in front of her sorority sisters at the Harvard game. Heather Stockton, the blond with the best rack at Vassar, should have been his tonight, but a certain wormy society brother was banging her nearby – no way for a fellow Bonesman to behave. He wasn't the guy turning twenty-one.

The girl, he now saw, was slightly chunky and had brassy highlights in her brown hair. Earlier she had seemed cute, but at present she was indistinguishable from one of those convention floozies his father warned him against – broads with pineapple hairdos who smoked cigarettes while they chewed gum.

Weeping in front of him, like a first year drama major, she looked like she might dissolve. She was just a townie, barely worth the two dollar cost of the vodka she'd drunk. Would the wound leave a scar? If he let her go would she report him to campus authorities in the morning? Well, that would be okay – they never did anything. But what if she went to the police? His father was giving him enough grief about his engineering courses.

Her cries softened to whimpers. She crouched down and grabbed her handbag. Rod Stewart's vocals carried through the floorboards from the stereo in the common room on the main floor. Side one of "Blondes Have More Fun" had been on repeat for the last hour and a half.

"If you want my body and you think I'm sexy…"

He gripped her hand on the doorknob. This was it. If she left, he was out of options. It was past two a.m., all the girls worth having had been claimed. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't going to put out back at the bar? You fat whore!" He couldn't believe it! Rejected by some townie piece of trash?

He tore her fingers from the handle and pushed her against the wall. She screamed. Her lips curled over her teeth as she realized her cries would reach no one who cared. He gathered his fist. His arm throbbed the same way it had the week before when he knocked a smart-mouthed townie kid into a coma outside Frog's Tavern with a single blow. His knuckles were sizzling. The girl's screams grew into ear-splitting shrieks.

"Shut up!"

He hit something hard, but it wasn't human bone. His fingers crushed into his wrist as his arm smashed through ebony paneling.

"Who are you talking to?" asked Emma from the table.

Pierce slowly retracted his fist from a deep gash in the wall by the sideboard.

"That will be added to your dues next month," mentioned Shaw, still seated as well.

Pierce stormed over to Jason. "You're dead!"

"Really?" A flicker in Nikos' stare halted his advance. The familiar throbbing in his arms shifted. It moved inward and flooded his skull. Pierce's brain and heart quaked.

"Stop!" he yelled, collapsing to his knees.

Nikos ceased his spell. "Anything further?"

Pierce rose unsteadily. "I'm leaving."

"Donald, don't you want to hear the answer to your question?" Shaw poured more wine into his glass and regarded Nikos. "I would enjoy some further discussion. Mr. Pierce raised a valid concern. How are you and Karma and Emma controlling Jean Grey and her inner firebird?"

Pierce backtracked and lowered into the chair on Jason's left, twitching like a hot wire.

Nikos smiled at him and then spoke to the table. "Karma and I, with Emma's help, have become part of who Jean is. We've infiltrated the matrix of her psyche and replaced Xavier in her mind. As we speak his influence is being obliterated. Consider this, Jean's powers are escalating at an exponential rate, and the more they grow, the more she needs us. To be Phoenix and stay human she must…"

"Do go on. Don't let me stop you." Everyone in the room, except Pierce, turned abruptly. "Odd, isn't it, that no one remembered to tell me about this little conference?" Selene Gallio, the Contessa di Monteluce, stepped into the chamber. Leland audibly gasped, while the others gaped in silence. The degree to which the Contessa's features had altered was staggering. Juiced with life, she grinned.

"We…" Frost was confused. She hadn't sensed Selene at all though she had spent months tuning her perception to pick up the Contessa's presence. "We thought you were resting tonight."

"I was supposed to be." Her former stiffness was gone, replaced by the suppleness of youth. Chalky traces littered her path as she swiftly approached.

Shaw tried to conceal his astonishment. No stranger would guess she was a day older than Emma. He rose to his feet, followed by the others.

"My queen." Pierce straightened as well, though he kept quivering.

Gallio winked at Shaw. Her dark eyes, no longer dull and murky, gleamed like steel. Shaw recognized the shine; it occurred only after she had killed and he had never before seen it so bright. He groaned privately as he envisioned the damage she must have done. Her victims were multiple, he was sure. He hoped she'd exclusively selected staff employees to dust. Even then there would inevitably be relatives to pay off, new hires to be investigated and processed, reporters, cops, and possibly federal agents to be co-opted, dragged off the scent or led astray… _It'll be a nightmare! At least Emma can help._

"You look especially well," he went on to remark, repressing a nascent sigh. "Was there a particular reason for your appetite this evening?"

"Oh yes. And I'm far from sated." Selene had neglected to wear gloves. Her bare arms opened wide like wings, ready to sweep them all into the embrace of death.

* * *

The tension in the control room at Starcore Command in Cape Herald, Florida, was sharp edged. The officers and members of the civilian staff felt like they were walking barefoot on broken glass. Elizabeth 'Libby' Strong, Commander of the current mission on the Eagle One Space Station, glared at Alain Corbeau from a giant monitor. "Why should I tell my guys to hold off?"

Corbeau searched for a reason Strong would accept while his vision shifted between her magnified stare and a smaller screen showing the fuzzy video feed from the single functioning camera inside the cargo bay of the Apsara Module. A dark, rounded, oblong shape lay moored within. It was a little more than two meters long, roughly eighty centimeters wide, one meter high, and of unknown origin. Mysterious symbols pulsed along its sides.

"The radiation's reduced to negligible levels," Strong continued, bracing her weightless body to emphasize the steadiness of her resolve. "Hell, the solar flare that hit us yesterday was fifty times the dose."

"Commander, none of us down here have a clue how we missed that." The massive arc had caught Corbeau and everyone in Starcore off guard. Communications were severed for five hours, during which time Strong and her crew had discovered the unidentified object. Alain tried to project genuine regret. "The entire base feels awful that exposure happened. We had no indications…"

"It came out of nowhere. I know. Just like the UO."

"Exactly. That's why I'm asking you to postpone your investigation until our team can get up there – ten hours, that's all." Corbeau knew he was grasping at straws, but the signs did look similar to those in the Eye of Ages documents Hank McCoy had sent him sixteen days prior – which coincidentally described the Alpha Phoenicis star system, the source of the anomalous Object 13. Maybe Hank and Xavier could provide assistance.

Strong remained intractable. "Alain, do you think I'm an idiot?" Her tone grew prickly. "I understand why you want us to wait until you people show up. It's so your group can take over and claim all the credit."

"That's ludicrous…"

"This find happened on my watch. Lopez risked his life to modify Apsara's robotic arm so we could get the thing inside."

"Libby, no one is going to deny you and your crew the thanks and admiration you deserve. I'm only asking you to stand by because we don't have any idea what that thing is!"

"That's right. Nobody knows what it is. And since I'm here and you're there and I outrank you at present, I'm going to find out. The General granted me full clearance to capture, contain and identify this thing. And if there is a connection to your Object 13, it's our duty to find that out ASAP."

"What if it's a weapon? A bomb?"

"Seems more like a coffin to me…"

"Or an escape capsule? Don't be so certain you won't find ET alive and armed in there. Listen, I've seen glyphs that resemble those symbols. I request the opportunity to research them before you allow anyone proximity to the object."

"What are you talking about? What have you seen?" Strong drifted nearer to the lens. "Specifically."

"The Eye of Ages codex."

"Oh, now I get it. You want to consult your mutant friends – Professor X and the missing link that thinks it's a scientist…"

"Charles Xavier and Hank McCoy have produced astounding work deciphering the text of the Eye of Ages. They believe the code is of alien origin. If there's the slimmest chance their knowledge could contribute to our efforts, don't you agree it's a good idea to contact them?" His syllables cracked with urgency. "Libby, for god's sake, give me a chance to read the warning label before you pop off the lid!"

Strong offered him a hybrid reaction, something between a scowl and a grin. "Prep will take fifty-nine minutes, so you got until zero hour. After that, you and the other four will be in mandatory lock-down, or nobody's launching tomorrow."

"Commander…"

"That's all, Corbeau. Thanks to the radiation fry we got yesterday, none of us will ever get up here again. This is our last chance to do something. Our final mission."

* * *

Things were not going well for Betsy Braddock. The first class lounge at JFK International Airport was devoid of anybody who was the slightest bit attractive or interesting, let alone worth a tiny peek in the head. In fact, the only other patrons were a trio of loud, drunk, Texas businessmen who'd been tracking her every move since she walked in. One after another, each declared his favorite aspect of her anatomy and then hooted and hollered at his colleagues for differing with his opinion. The three of them made the usually entertaining prospect of a psychic feedback boost not just unappealing, but revolting.

The men, unwilling to accept her preference for a cocktail of her own choosing, had twice sent her a drink. Both times the beverage was returned accompanied by a reproachful glance. Did they really think she could possibly find their behavior inviting? Betsy might have been motivated to teach her unwelcome audience a lesson, but she was certain dipping into their sloshy psyches would simply cause her to feel more pathetic than she did already. Here she was, being recalled to Southwark, her cover blown, with nothing to divert her but American louts pissed on Jack Daniels and bloated with prime rib.

_Remy, mon ami, tu vas le regretter._ She would exact an exquisite revenge on LeBeau, though she had yet to figure out precisely what it would be. She had awoken in her suite feeling nauseated and humiliated. Once she checked the time and saw that nearly two hours had passed since she was in the cocktail lounge, she knew she had been royally played and Remy and his X-friend were likely long gone. Recalling her history with the thief, she immediately commenced an itemization of her possessions and concluded only a single article was missing – her room key. It was delivered in a small envelope on her breakfast tray in the morning. There was a note from Leland attached:

B,

I found this in my pocket last night. I think you know who put it there.

-H

Lennox called from Southwark within minutes. Braddock knew better than to attempt any discussion. She was curtly instructed to board Flight 112, departing at 23:30 the following night.

Sebastian Shaw was the most likely one, she surmised, to have transmitted the news. Like Betsy herself, both the Foreign Secretary and the Chief of MI6 were legacy members of the venerable London Hellfire Club. The Foreign Secretary was rumored to be the White King of the Inner Circle of the Empire and allegedly communed with the centuries-old spirit of Sir Francis Dashwood on a daily basis.

Braddock was certain Lennox's icy attitude on the phone reflected barely a hint of the unpleasantness the higher ups must have rained on him. Would her exposure result in Excalibur, Lennox's creation, losing the only chief it ever had? Would the division be disbanded altogether? _I best get on that report,_ she thought while pulling a slim tablet from her bag. _I was so close to finding out everything…_

Without warning, a searing pain shot through her skull. A blinding raptor made of fire flashed in her mind. The electronic pad slipped from her fingers and skittered several feet away. Luckily, before one of the beefy Texans could rise from his seat, a fresh arrival, a handsome man with dark hair, bent down and retrieved it. "Are you all right?" he asked, in a mild, Mid-Atlantic accent, putting it in her hands.

"Just a headache. Cheers." The sensation ebbed rapidly, but for a moment it had felt like a red-hot skewer was piercing her brain. She'd had a similar experience the previous afternoon. A ghostly imprint of the burning falcon still marked her vision.

Minutes later an attendant informed her Flight 112 to London Heathrow was ready for boarding. Braddock's mutant abilities, as far as she knew, did not include precognition. Nevertheless, she had a very bad feeling her journey was not going to go as planned.

* * *

"Hank, it's a very dangerous combination." Though she appeared frazzled, Moira MacTaggert's face conveyed grave concern as she spoke with Hank McCoy via a digital display in the laboratory.

"M56 and 47, equal parts?" Hank looked down at the tablet device he used to take notes and receive messages.

"It won't just block all those neurotransmitters, it'll shut down her entire autonomic nervous system." McCoy noticed Alain Corbeau's name in his message queue. Moira was still talking. "How fast can you perform a tracheotomy?" she asked. "I suppose you might want to have Logan take care a' that. If he isn't off somewherre..." MacTaggert's increasingly anxious trills quickly reclaimed McCoy's undivided attention. "Unless termination is what you want."

Jean's eyes, dim and lifeless, surfaced in Hank's mind. "God, I hope not…"

"We knew it could come to this. It might be time for Svāhā."

"Wait, Moira, are you sure the mix will disable ANS? I thought all M47 did was moderately inhibit select metabotropic receptors."

"M47 systemically affects the pH of the entire cerebral cortex, it turns out," MacTaggert's forehead wrinkled, "and the striatum, when combined with M56."

"Did you test it? On a subject?"

"There was an incident. I can't say anymore." Hank was well aware Moira's location on Muir Island was over three thousand miles from the Institute, yet he hadn't sensed the distance until that moment. MacTaggert's focus roamed elsewhere. "It's very late over here, Hank," she said, coming back to him. "I've got to get some sleep."

"Moira, Ororo and I have no idea what we're doing. Charles is a mess." He hadn't put it so bluntly before, even to himself.

"Yes. I know. No one's ever been as close to him as Jean…"

"It's not just Jean and whatever she's becoming. There's another presence. He thinks it's the author of the codex from the Eye of Ages. He says her name is Lilandra."

"Isn't that Eye of Ages stuff five thousand years old?"

"He was calling to her, or something, this afternoon. I'm afraid he believes she's not only real and alive, but on her way here." He interpreted Moira's look of incredulity as a license to press her again to join them. "Say you're ready and the Blackbird will be there in an hour and a half. You know how much we could use your help. Is there any chance…"

"I can't leave right now."

"What's going on up there?"

"Don't ask. I beg of you, Hank."

"You don't want Charles to find out."

"It'll be too much. Time to reedit this conversation." Her expression changed. "Hank, are you certain you don't need me?"

"We're all right. Things are stable for the time being. Get some rest, Moira."

"I wish I could. Is Charles getting any?"

"He's talking to Logan at the moment. So I doubt it."

"So Logan just showed up at the Hellfire party out of nowhere? With no explanation where he'd been for the past two weeks?"

"I think he's explaining to Charles now."

"Hank, give Charles my best. Good luck to you." Moira signed off.

McCoy returned to the message from Corbeau.

* * *

Professor Xavier watched ripples disturb his tea as Logan crossed the room.

"Do you want to talk?" asked Xavier, looking up. "If you do, we should do it now."

Logan stopped at the window and stared into the night. "I know there's a lot going on." He paused. "But I found something… and, I need your help."

"It's about Jean, isn't it?" Charles' dark eyes assured him no judgment would result if he chose to unburden his soul. "Talk to me."

Logan moved to the front of Xavier's desk. "Can't you just go into my mind?" He ran his fingers through the tufts of hair at the sides of his head. "I have to tell you?"

"Sounds like a long story."

Logan sat down. "I don't even know if it's true." His motorcycle jacket creased as he settled into the armchair.

"Well, as you're aware, due to your conditioning and damaged neural pathways, it's not easy for me to extract coherent thoughts. It requires considerable time and effort, two things I am trying to conserve. I need you to lead me, Logan."

Wolverine exhaled slowly and began. "After the Cerebro meltdown, I took Jean back to the city."

"I recall." Charles rested his elbows on the surface of his desk and formed a bridge with his hands.

"I was going to walk her inside…but…" Logan's pupils shot to the floor. "She kissed me."

"Ororo told me. It's all right."

"It's not all right with me." Anger and confusion crumpled Logan's brow as he raised his gaze. "She did it. But I wanted her to. Did she pick up what I was thinking? Was it my fault?"

"It's not your fault. It's her responsibility to shield herself from the thoughts of others and, as far as I can see, you did nothing to invite her."

"Things got strange after that. I started having these memories, dreams, about my past, long ago. She was in them."

"How long?"

"Before the war."

"World War II?"

"It makes no sense." Logan's jaw tensed. "I remembered we lived in this town. She was my wife… Well, I thought she was. I had to find out if the place was real."

"That's where you went." Xavier's tone was soothing.

"It's an old mining spot in the Northern Rockies, in BC, called Gun River. There's nothin' there now, for miles, just a poison lake... Only building still standing's some kind of museum." Logan removed a newspaper clipping from his jacket pocket and handed it to Xavier. "The place was closed for the winter, but I let myself in. I found this."

The article was from The Bralorne Courier, dated April 28th, 1936. The headline "STRIKE EXPLODES IN GUN RIVER" accompanied a picture of a young woman in worker's clothing standing before a troop of mounted police and a rolling battery of machine guns.

"This… this is Jean?" asked Xavier. The figure was blurry and small but somehow Charles knew absolutely it was Jean Grey.

"She told me her name was Rose," said Logan. "But I called her 'Red' or 'Rosie', mostly. There was an explosion. Everybody thought she died."

"Go on." Xavier sensed Wolverine slipping deep into memory. Their minds merged.

* * *

The sinking sun warmed Logan's shoulders as he climbed to the crest of the row of slim miners' houses. He felt charged. Things were changing; he could smell it. Beyond the moss spreading under the melting snow and the grubs and chicks hatching, he caught other developing scents. His fellow miners' sweat was heavy with the bitter odor of desperation tinged with rage.

Throughout his shift the guys on the crew had broiled with resentment. The degree of discontent increased by the hour as one incendiary complaint kindled the next. Later, at the overpriced company bar, an altercation between a foreman and two hot-tempered good-time gals had nearly spurred a riot. Everywhere people's fuses were set to ignite.

Bright sashes on the clothesline in front of the last house before his own gave off the pungent fragrance of fresh red dye. Armand and Annette Beaubier and their four small children were intermittently visible among the flapping laundry.

"Frère Logan, is the Revolution coming?" called out Armand in Québécois inflected English. Annette punctuated Armand's question by dumping their youngest, a baby named Paul, in her husband's empty arms so she could heave a wicker basket piled with folded linen inside.

"Don't know yet," Logan answered, without slowing his pace.

The rickety wooden structure at the top of the pebble strewn dirt road was not unique for its state of decrepitude. Thirty brutal mountain winters compounded by an equal number of scorching summers had warped the rough-cut boards and planks to such an extreme that each piece wanted to peel off in a different direction. Logan had to remind himself not to accidentally yank the door off its hinges as he grabbed the tin handle. A third of the way in, he stopped. She was home.

He smelled arctic air, budding pine, and the element she always carried that he could never identify – finer than any spice and subtler than any flower. Golden twilight shining through the opening gilded the back of her neck and arms and stoked her fiery red curls as they grazed the ceiling. Her tendency to levitate still amazed him, despite the fact he'd awakened to find her sleeping form pinned to the roof rafters more often than not recently.

"Glad you're back." He shut the door behind him. "See much?" he asked.

Though the house's only windows were along the western wall, she was meditating facing east. She stretched out from her lotus position; her feet touched the floor as she turned. "We have to seal it tonight."

"Good ol' Ninety-three?"

She nodded. "Things might heat up tomorrow."

"Really want to get that thing out of the lake and bury it tonight?"

"Hendrix is full of Mounties and Pinkertons." She was wearing one of his shirts she'd refashioned and dungarees cinched by a thin loop of twine he could rip apart in half a second. "They think the union is going to strike. What did you hear at the bar?"

"Not a whole lot." He latched a finger onto the rope holding up her pants and brought her close. "How 'bout I tell you later." With his other arm he guided her head to his lips. At first she was a shade resistant; then she sparked. In moments he felt her energy surrounding him, lifting him off the floor.

"No…" She broke away. His boots clomped on the knobby planks. "Logan, tell me now." Her pupils locked onto his.

"Jones and O'Shaughnessy said the Unity League is sending Levitsky. But nobody knows when he'll get here. Could be a week."

"Pinkertons must have found out."

"You think they got a spy in the League?"

"They have them everywhere. Most don't even realize they're informants." She moved into the bedroom. Logan followed. "We have to prepare." She walked over to the wooden trunk in the corner and retrieved a thick leather vest. The middle drawer of a little dresser with chipped handles next to the bed opened and one of Logan's flannel shirts flew into her grasp. She gave it to him. "You might want an extra layer in case the chains scrape…"

He threw the shirt on the dresser and tossed the vest from her grip. "I don't scrape." He took her hands and reversed a step to the bed. "What's the hurry, Red? You know we can't leave for a couple hours." He pulled her with him as he leaned back onto the blankets. "Don't you love me still?"

She floated inches above. "I have to concentrate. I shouldn't risk losing myself right now..."

"I won't let you get lost." The space between them disappeared as his arms folded around her. "I've got you. I won't let go."

The sunlight faded away but neither perceived the darkness until hours had elapsed. Wearing the leather vest with the shirt she'd altered and denim pants, she led him outside. Logan stood by while she telekinetically retrieved yards of medium gauge chain from a hole under the side of the house. He reached into the center of the coiling mass and heaped the load over his shoulder.

"You don't have to carry that," she said.

"I'm gonna be your anchor at the lake. Might as well get a feel for it."

As they neared the Beaubier's shack, he sniffed the air. "Dynamite…"

"Armand and Annette's?"

"Must be storing it under the floorboards. Goddamn tinhead. With his kids sleeping on top of it…"

"Did you smell it earlier?"

"No."

She fixed on a point beyond his vision. "They're bringing more. They're just south of us. If we stay north they won't see us." She waited, poised to continue up the ridge.

"I don't like leaving this."

"The Pinkertons will use machine guns to attack the strike lines. Don't the miners have the right to fight back?"

"And risk blowing up their kids in their beds?"

_We shouldn't interfere, and we have something else we have to do._

After a brisk ten miles they paused at Anvil Cliff. The distant town of Hendrix – usually a dim group of lodges at the base of a severe nine thousand-foot peak – was ablaze with activity. Oil lanterns burned in every cabin and two rows of large tents projected shadow plays of men carousing within. The significant size of the force could be determined alone from the herd of horses in the hastily constructed corral.

Logan commented on the scene. "This ain't making a lot of sense to me. That's a hell of an outfit to stamp out a strike in Gun River."

"What are you saying?"

"Mounties are cheap. They'll rush a town for moosemeat. But Pinkertons and machine guns cost silver."

"You don't think the mines are worth it."

"The Pioneer shaft ain't the big payoff no more. Even Bralorne doesn't yield like Blue Hawk and Yukon territory, and everybody knows Old Scratch Ninety-three has been tapped out for years." His breath was visible in the cold starlight. "I can't help wondering, darlin', if the Zeppelin King has his Pinkers out to find us, and get his hands on you, 'stead of protecting his duraluminum supply."

There was a brittle quality to her response. "I said goodbye. I told him he would never see me again."

"'Cept when he looks up at his ceiling."

The stars and partial moon didn't provide great illumination, but it was obvious the remark unnerved her. "How do you know about that?"

"One of the guys was reading Life Magazine – there were pictures of him and his office. Nice window."

"It bothers you?"

"I'd 've liked it better if you'd told me."

"Why should I have told you?"

"Because you're my wife!" He hadn't intended to show his anger. "Another man is looking at you… your…"

"We're not married, Logan." The words were spoken softly but they hit hard.

"'Course we are!" he shouted. His throat felt scratchy. "That's what I told them at the office. I don't need a priest or a piece of paper to tell me…"

"You need me to agree. I'm not your wife. I never said I was."

"Then what are we doing being together?" He grabbed her arm. "Sharing a bed all these months? What kind of a woman are you?"

"Not one who belongs to you." She peeled his fingers off with her mind.

Logan threw down the chain. "So why should I haul this shit and risk my skin?"

She turned away and started in the direction of Carpenter Lake. "Because I can't do this without you." She disappeared into the woods. _And it must be done tonight…_ Logan growled, gathered the chain, and went after her.

Sulfuric acid, arsenic, cyanide and mercury from more than twenty mining operations had been collecting in Carpenter Lake for decades, resulting in a nightmarish inversion of the clear, pristine expanse the local Lilwatul had revered as the gateway to paradise, teeming with the abundant trout and salmon the gods allowed to slip past their spears. Now the only creatures being nourished were tenacious alkaline bacteria feeding on scattered beaks and feathers from of an unfortunate flock of Tundra Swans.

No shrubs or grasses or other herbaceous plants grew within a twenty-yard band of stinking spongy earth encircling the water's edge. She moved ahead, hovering over the muck. Logan's boots squelched as he slushed by ash-white carcasses of massive larch trees.

Fifteen feet from the lake bank she halted. "Stop here." The chain unwound from his torso and wove through the belt loops attached to her vest. "It isn't Warren I'm worried about," she said, facing him. "It's the Circle."

"Didn't we deal with them already?" The mud sucked at his ankles. Acrid vapor stung his tear ducts and the inside of his nose.

"You don't understand the Circle." She rose higher. "We have to keep this secret from them for decades, for a lifetime." She focused on the center of the lake and bit her lip. Something wasn't right.

"What's wrong?" he asked, gripping the chain as it extended.

"It's giving off some sort of radiation. I can't sense where it is exactly. I have go in."

"You can't last down there. I'll go if someone has to." He noticed a gritty residue caking his palms. "Rosie, the chain's rusting." Deep ruddy streaks marked his skin from the flow of the metal links. "It's turning into dust." He called to her, "Don't…"

_Just hold onto me._ She dove.

"I won't let go," he said, though she was gone. "Don't you, Red."

The murky depths swallowed half the line in seconds. The length ran out and the connection drew taut. Logan secured himself as best he could, but a powerful jerk pulled him to the ground and dragged him to the edge of the reeking basin. His flannel shirt and the skin of his elbows burned away. He was a foot from the water when the tether slackened. Paying no regard to the yawning wounds of his lacerated arms, he struggled to his feet and began reeling in the chain. As he grasped the wet iron acid ate his flesh. His hands resembled hamburger. Midway a mangled half-link emerged from the steamy water, attached to nothing. The metal had eroded. The chain had broken. He'd lost her.

A knot tightened in his gut. He had to go get her. God he hated swimming. His heavily muscled, compact physique caused him to sink like a lead weight. Well, he was targeting the bottom anyway…

A sliver of a second before he jumped, he glimpsed an amorphous glow spreading beneath the surface of the lake. Suddenly plumes of liquid gushed skyward. Wings of fire erupted from the water as a brilliant figure soared into the air.

"Rosie?"

Something else rose from the waves – a gleaming seven-foot long obsidian sarcophagus limned with burning arcane symbols. The glyphs seared his retinas. He didn't realize his feet had left the ground until he blinked at the putrid lake shrinking beneath. It took the lifespan of a match flame for them to reach the west face of Mount Zamiel. Logan landed by the hoist tower at the entrance to 'Old Scratch', Shaft Ninety-three, the deepest hole – more than a mile down – in the entire province.

He walked behind as she glided over the rails into the mine. She moved forward slowly, suspending the coffin before her. The intensity of her fiery aura and the shimmering symbols oscillated in concert, transforming the luminous quartz walls of the entry tunnel into a stroboscopic firestorm of flashing gold and blinding white.

"Never seen you like this, Rosie." His brain buzzed from the dizzying stimuli. His optic nerves popped and regrew.

_Stay with me, Logan._

"I'm with you, 'til doomsday. What's inside that thing?"

_The end of the world._


End file.
